“13084Tonight I came back to the hotel alone; the other has decided to return later on. The anxieties are already here, like the poison already prepared (jealousy, abandonment, restlessness); they merely wait for a little time to pass in order to be able to declare themselves with some propriety. I pick up a book and take a sleeping pill, "calmly." The silence of this huge hotel is echoing, indifferent, idiotic (faint murmur of draining bathtubs); the furniture and the lamps are stupid; nothing friendly that might warm ("I'm cold, let's go back to Paris). Anxiety mounts; I observe its progress, like Socrates chatting (as I am reading) and feeling the cold of the hemlock rising in his body; I hear it identify itself moving up, like an inexorable figure, against the background of the things that are here.”
In this quote by Roland Barthes, the speaker describes their experience of being alone in a hotel room while feeling a sense of impending anxieties. The speaker uses vivid imagery and metaphorical language to convey a sense of unease and isolation. The mention of jealousy, abandonment, and restlessness waiting to declare themselves "with some propriety" highlights the speaker's inner turmoil. The description of the hotel's atmosphere as indifferent and idiotic adds to the feeling of alienation. The comparison of the speaker's anxiety to Socrates feeling the effects of hemlock further emphasizes the overwhelming nature of these emotions. Overall, the quote captures a sense of existential dread and loneliness that the speaker is grappling with in their solitary setting.
In this passage from Roland Barthes, we see the familiar feelings of anxiety, jealousy, and restlessness that many people experience in modern times. The struggle with inner turmoil and the desire for distraction through books and sleeping pills are all too relatable in today's fast-paced and often overwhelming world. Barthes' depiction of the indifferent and unfeeling hotel environment reflects the isolating nature of modern society, where technology and distractions can sometimes serve to exacerbate feelings of loneliness and alienation.
In his diary entry, Roland Barthes vividly expresses the mounting anxiety he feels while alone in a hotel room. The sense of impending doom and feelings of jealousy and abandonment come alive through his words. The palpable tension and isolation he experiences are strikingly depicted in his reflections.
As you reflect on the passage by Roland Barthes, consider the following questions:
“In front of the photograph of my mother as a child, I tell myself: she is going to die: I shudder, like winnicott's psychotic patient, over a catastrophe which has already occurred. Whether or not the subject is already dead, every photograph is this catastrophe.”
“...what I enjoy in a narrative is not directly its content or even its structure, but rather the abrasions I impose upon the fine surface: I read on, I skip, I look up, I dip in again. Which has nothing to do with the deep laceration the text of bliss inflicts upon language itself, and not upon the simple temporality of its reading.”
“Grim evening at Gabès (windy, black clouds, hideous bungalows, “folklore” performance in the Hotel Chems bar): I can no longer take refuge in my thoughts: neither in Paris nor traveling. No escape.”
“Am I in love? - Yes, since I'm waiting." The other never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game: whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits.”
“Charlus takes the narrator's chin and slides his magnetized fingers up to the ears "like a barber's fingers." This trivial gesture, which I begin, is continued by another part of myself; without anything interrupting it physically, it branches off, shifts from a simple function to a dazzling meaning, that of the demand for love. Meaning (destiny) electrifies my hand: I am about to tear open the other's opaque body, oblige the other (whether there is a response, a withdrawal, or mere acceptance) to enter into the interplay of meaning: I am about to make the other speak. In the lover's realm, there is no acting out: no propulsion, perhaps even no pleasure -- nothing but signs, a frenzied activity of language: to institute, on each furtive occasion, the system (the paradigm) of demand and response.”
“Werther identifies himself with the madman, with the footman. As a reader, I can identify myself with Werther. Historically, thousands of subjects have done so, suffering, killing themselves, dressing, perfuming themselves, writing as if they were Werther (songs, poems, candy boxes, belt buckles, fans, colognes a' la Werther). A long chain of equivalences links all the lovers in the world. In the theory of literature, "projection" (of the reader into the character) no longer has any currency: yet it is the appropriate tonality of imaginative readings: reading a love story, it is scarcely adequate to say I project myself; I cling to the image of the lover, shut up with his image in the very enclosure of the book (everyone knows that such stories are read in a state of secession, of retirement, of voluptuous absence: in the toilet).”