One day, quite some time ago, I happened on a photograph of Napoleonโs youngest brother, Jerome, taken in 1852. And I realized then, with an amazement I have not been able to lessen since: โI am looking at eyes that looked at the Emperor.โ Sometimes I would mention this amazement, but since no one seemed to share it, nor even to understand it (life consists of these little touches of solitude), I forgot about it.
Roland BarthesWe can never know, for the good reason that writing is the destruction of every voice, every origin. Writing is that neuter, that composite, that obliquity into which our subject flees, the black-and-white where all identity is lost, beginning with the very identity of the body that writes.
Roland Barthes