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Frammenti di un discorso amoroso by Roland Barthes () [Roland Barthes] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. FRAMMENTI DI UN DISCORSO AMOROSO. ANTEPRIMA. Liberamente ispirato al saggio di Roland Barthes. Coreografie e regia Domenico. Frammenti di un discorso amoroso by Roland Barthes, , available at Book Depository with free delivery worldwide.

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I suffer from being excluded, from being aggressive, from being crazy, and from being common. Reading this book won’t teach anyone how to love better or diacorso wisely, but it does portray the complexities, small and big, and the mutliple wonders of love, in a very unique and direct way. Top Reviews Most recent Top Reviews.

Frammenti di un discorso amoroso: : Roland Barthes: Books

As in death, love is a topic of infinite discourse. Or I have literally no idea how to begin to comment on this. Absence, adorable, affirmation, alteration, etc. Tappe su cui eventualmente tornare a riflettere, in ordine sparso, secondo il proprio sentire.

Want to Read saving…. There is always something left to be said. Se no, regalino prodromico, settimana di tempo e se ne riparla.

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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. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words.

What is the concatenation of victory and failure? Neither of them will make me a better lover. There was an emotional power to his prose, that, for anyone that ever loved, may be reminded, and forced to face up to moments from their own intimate past.

This is how it happens sometimes, misery or joy engulfs me, without any particular tumult ensuing: I’d appreciate it RB: I wonder why he hasn’t called me?


Frammenti di un discorso amoroso by Roland Barthes

This book is a destroying and destroyed queer love poem masquerading half-assedly as theory. The longing for consummation with the other However, it is a comparative study of Goethe’s Werther and his stance on his love, or I should say, his helplessness because of love.

Barthez is absolutely brilliant, and may be well be the best analysis ever made of love, as seen from the beginning to the end of a relationship. For Barthes Love is inseparable from Jealousy: Flouted in my enterprise as amoros happensI emerge from it neither victor nor vanquished: Goodreads helps you keep track of books you want to read.

The lover is always waiting, he must ever have his love validated, requited, and won. Barthes tackles the ideas of Werther, Nietzsche, Freud, and sprinkles the etymology of various Greek, French and Uun words for good measure.

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What do we mean when we declare the object of our love “adorable”? Trivia About A Xi Discour To tell the truth, no one–except for the others– ever knows anything about it; a kind of innocence conceals the end of this thing conceived, asserted, lived according to eternity.

Frammenti di un discorso amoroso

I stayed with it, and it stayed with me. I was reminded again of drammenti great a novel well, anti-novel Please try again later. Not only that, but the language becomes an organ of erotic and amorous extension, reaching out, carressing the possibility of the other.

Tenderness, on the contrary, is nothing but an infinite, insatiable metonymy; the gesture, the episode of tenderness the delicious harmony of an evening can only be interrupted with laceration: A moment of affirmation; for a certain time, though a finite one, a deranged interval, something has been successful: I’ve listened to both of these romantic souls, frammehti incidentally primarily listened to both of them while perched on barstools.


What is the object of my reading? As a jealous man, I suffer four times over: It’s like theory suddenly got a heart, but not only a heart, a heart that is languishing under the power of love, a heart that might occasionally drink itself silly and smoke clove cigarettes and write rambling, fragmented, pained and intensely erotic emails to the Dear Roland, Can I call you Roland? Freud, Proust, and Nietzsche.

Fragments ei more meaty and substantial. Admittedly, this is the kind of book that I will quickly chuck for its verbosity. But then he clearly makes no bones about describing sitting by the phone in coldsweats gnawing his own fingers and desolate, waiting for “X” to call him.

Centuries of authors, of philosophers, have tried to do so in vain. Now at the tail-end of a long relationship, the terrible beauty of Barthes’ writing is quite effulgent.

Che lo siano o non lo siano mai stati. The other never waits. I am its poet its bard only for the beginning; the end, like my own death, belongs to others; it is up to them to write the fiction, the external, mythic narrative.

Love at first sight is always spoken in the past tense. But with Love comes pain. It is as if words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. This phenomenon results from a constraint in the lover’s discourse: