‘Mourning Diary’ by Roland Barthes
Jesus H. Christ, my reading list has been exceptionally cheerful of late, hasn’t it? Mass murder, Marilyn Manson and now, mourning. Remind me to break out the Wodehouse next time, change it up a little… Anyway, without further ado, allow me to explain my latest extraordinarily sunny choice: French literary philosopher Roland Barthes began writing his Mourning Diary the day after his mother’s death in October 1977 and continued to record his thoughts and feelings regarding the bereavement well into the autumn of 1979. This hardback edition, issued by niche non-fiction publishers Notting Hill Editions, was put together by Nathalie Leger and translated by Richard Howard and, save for the occasional annotation, the text remains largely unabridged.
I found this obscure little volume - for reasons that are still unclear - in the literary criticism section at Waterstone’s in Newcastle. The idea of a bare bones, first-person account of losing a loved one immediately struck a chord with me, not only on account of my own experience in the field but also because such issues are integral to my still-in-progress, third-draft-imminent novel. So without even checking the price (which, incidentally, turned out to be much higher than I expected…burn) I took Mourning Diary to the cashier with much haste. Despite his eminence in the fields of sociology and lexicology, I hadn’t read or heard of Roland Barthes before picking up this book, though after reading it I will most certainly be exploring further.
It would be safe to suggest that the relationship between Barthes and his mother Henriette was much closer than the norm: she married Louis Barthes when she was twenty years old, gave birth to Roland at twenty-two, and was widowed at just twenty-three and left to raise her son alone. Everything detailed within Mourning Diary makes clear that they were very close - ‘I think of the mornings when I was sick and didn’t go to school, and when I had the joy of staying with her’ - and this is what renders Barthes’ loss all the more devastating. In fact, he didn’t last much longer without her; he died less than three years later, in February 1980. And although Henrietta Barthes was a good age (eighty-four) when she passed away, this did little to soften the blow for her doting son who was completely undone by her absence: 'Does being able to live without someone you loved mean you loved her less than you thought…?’
Simply put, I am happy to have discovered Mourning Diary - perverse as that sentence may sound. It is not a hearty slice of escapism, quite the opposite in fact, but given the short length and visceral nature of Barthes’ diary entries it can be read rather briskly. Furthermore, it is oddly refreshing to read a book about grief that doesn’t try to batter you with platitudes and, if anything, subverts them. Mourning Diary, though written on a universal subject (i.e. death) is, however, far from universal in its appeal, for it is both introspective and uncensored, and its failure to sugar-coat the ins and outs of bereavement may prove a touch too dreary for some. A lot of Barthes’ observations resonated with me, however, and I will be keeping Mourning Diary close by while I continue work on my ostensible debut novel.
This piece was originally published on alisonlaurabell.tumblr.com in May 2012.