Mourning Diary by Roland Barthes
I seem to have been lost in something of a Barthesian parallel universe of late; as well as reading his seminal book “Mythologies” back in January, he’s turned up in books about translation, collections of essays, and even cartoon anthologies! I’ve also nearly read some of his works at times (“A Lover’s Discourse” was a possible for the 1977 Club). However, my most recent reading of Barthes is a lovely, and possibly unexpected, work published in a beautiful version by Notting Hill Editions – one of their first, I believe.
Around 6 p.m.: The apartment is warm, clean, well-lit, pleasant. I make it that way, energetically, devotedly (enjoying it bitterly): henceforth and forever I am my own mother.
“The Mourning Diary” is, at first sight, a rather different book in many ways to his more philosophical works; but as I read on I soon began to wonder if it really was. Barthes lived for most of his life with his mother Henriette; her death in 1977 devastated him, and it could be argued that he never really recovered from that loss, dying in the aftermath of a car accident in 1980. “The Mourning Diary” is made up of notes he made on small slips of paper after her death, recording the process of grieving, which were finally collected and pubished in 2010. In it, the reader watches a great mind try to come to terms with loss, and it’s a moving and resonant work.
I now know that my mourning will be chaotic
Barthes’ father was killed in World War 1 when baby Roland was not even one, so he was raised by his mother (and grandmother); an upbringing which would by necessity create a close bond. The family moved to Paris when Barthes was 11, and he lived with his mother for the rest of his life. Part of me would argue that that isn’t necessarily healthy (I’ve seen in my own family-by-marriage the detrimental effect on one particular individual by not leaving the nest); but nevertheless, so it was for Barthes and who are we to judge another person’s way of living?
Sometimes, very briefly, a blank moment- a kind of numbness -which is not a moment of forgetfulness. This terrifies me.
So inevitably the death of Henriette was a catastrophe for Barthes, and an event with which he struggled to deal. He noted his thoughts, feelings and emotions on these little pieces of paper, in fragments which often read like poetry, and these meditations explore the effect of death and mourning, how we deal (or don’t deal) with the fact the loved one is no longer present, and in fact that gaping absence. This latter factor is one that shines through most strongly as Barthes attempts to understand the way he’s feeling; and the hollowness after a loss is one of the hardest parts, the fact that the person has gone missing from your life permanently.
We don’t forget,
but something vacant settles in us.

Jahan98 / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)
You could argue that it’s impossible to rationalise this kind of human emotion; yet the intellectual in Barthes cannot help but try to make sense of his loss. It’s our way, I suppose; with anything, we try to understand it, yet with grief I don’t know that we ever can. So we witness Barthes drawing on the experience of Proust, when his beloved grandmother died; and finding himself soothed by the poetry of haiku (an increasing influence during his later life, as I discovered from “This Little Art“).
I am either lacerated or ill at ease and occasionally subject to gusts of life
I very much recognised Barthes’ need to understand his mourning from my own personal experience. I lost my father in 2015 – the first major close family death in my adult life – and frankly the shock was immense and I didn’t actually know how to deal with it. Nothing prepares you for the death of a parent, and I wish at the time I’d had this book to hand. Even if it didn’t necessarily bring comfort, as more saccharine works might try, it may have helped me to rationalise some of what I was feeling but couldn’t articulate.
A cold winter night. I’m warm enough, yet I’m alone. And I realise that I’ll have to get used to existing quite naturally within the solitude, functioning there, working there, accompanied by, fastened to the presence of the absence.
“Mourning Diary” is a powerful and emotional read, and a very different one from what I’ve encountered from Barthes the theorist. And yet, his study of a photograph of Henriette as a child led him to write one of his most famous works, “Camera Lucida”, which although ostensibly a study of the essence of photography, apparently also is something of a tribute to his mother. I have a copy of this work sitting on the TBR; the first Barthes I ever bought, I believe, after a recommendation by either Georges Perec or Italo Calvino, and it may have to come off the shelves soon. I have a feeling it’s going to be a Barthesian kind of year…
Jun 04, 2020 @ 06:31:50
“I’m either lacerated or ill at ease…” one of my favourite lines even inadvertently became the title of an essay I wrote which draws on Camera Lucida. I keep Mourning Diary close at hand, same gorgeous edition too.
Jun 04, 2020 @ 08:28:42
It’s definitely a book to go back to, and in fact so much of it resonated that it would have been impossible to quote it all. I obviously need to read Camera Lucida too.
Jun 04, 2020 @ 11:34:15
I loved “Mythologies” and this book in a way seems a apt read at this time, though I was never that close to either of my parents and fled the nest as soon as I could; lol but dealing with their death is never easy and we all devises that we need to develop as coping mechanism. In the case of a genius, it comes out in a book! Wonderful review!
Jun 04, 2020 @ 12:37:03
Thank you! I found it wonderful reading, and it really helped me crystallise some of my feelings. The loss of a parent isn’t easy, however close or not you are (I left home young too). I know exactly what you mean about coping mechanisms – mine is always reading, but it would be expected that Barthes would write something brilliant!
Jun 04, 2020 @ 12:55:14
A truly lovely essay Kaggsy and a wonderful introduction to Barthes, whose work I have always found to be too, too intimidating (I missed several of your posts earlier this year, because of my great migration, so I’m now catching up. I just put Mythologies on my own TBR mountain, you naughty girl!). The realization that “henceforth and forever I am now my own mother” really resonated; it perfectly describes what I felt but was unable to articulate during my own mourning period . . . .
Jun 04, 2020 @ 14:43:06
Thank you. I found Barthes scary too, and I don’t always *quite* get him, but I think him worth the effort. He changes the way that you look at things. And I think you’re right with what you say about articulating things we couldn’t; I found it hard to deal with my father’s death and had I had this book about I might have understood that what I was feeling was normal.
Jun 04, 2020 @ 13:51:53
Thanks for writing this post. I also thought that I couldn’t understand Barthes if I tried, but this title seems approachable. I will keep an eye on his books. Steve and I still have our set of parents, 🙂 but we lost his sister last November, and books on mourning, good books on mourning, are scarce -or I don’t know about them-, so this recommendation is highly appreciated.
Jun 04, 2020 @ 14:40:41
Most welcome, Silvia, It’s odd, really, how a book of fragments resonated so much – maybe because grief fragments us somewhat. Barthes is not always easy, I grant that – but I think definitely worth the effort!
Jun 04, 2020 @ 15:55:29
Lovely review, Karen. I haven’t read this but think I would like it very much.
Nowadays we would say it’s unhealthy but if it really worked for them, why not live together. It’s just that in this kind of symbiotic relationship the one who is left behind is shattered. I lost my mother in 2009, my dad in 2014 and especially my dad hit me so hard. Hard to recover. It took me years. So, I can relate to your experience.
Jun 04, 2020 @ 16:01:51
Thanks Caroline. It *is* a very emotive book in many ways, but watching him trying to work through his grief is very cathartic.
And I didn’t want to comment too much on his situation with his mother, because I knew it would be coloured by my experience – as you say, if it worked for them… But it *is* hard for the one left. My dad died in 2015 and my mother has never really come to terms with it… 😦
Jun 04, 2020 @ 16:28:01
Nice blog 😇
Jun 04, 2020 @ 16:56:32
Thanks! 😀
Jun 04, 2020 @ 16:56:55
My pleasure, followed you 💕
Jun 04, 2020 @ 16:58:14
😀 Thanks!
Jun 04, 2020 @ 16:48:25
This does sound like a beautiful, meditative and poignant book. One to dip in and out of perhaps. It is unusual for a son to live so long with his mother, but different strokes for different folks I suppose. They clearly had a special relationship.
Jun 04, 2020 @ 16:58:04
It was indeed one to dip – each entry, however short, has something to say about the whole grieving process. And I’m not going to judge him – human relationships are complicated things!
Jun 04, 2020 @ 17:41:00
You are right, nothing prepares you for the shock and no one can can really help I only know this writer through your reviews but I think this is a book I need to own, it looks from the quotes you’ve chosen that it could be very helpful.
Jun 04, 2020 @ 19:29:03
It’s certainly a fascinating work. Fragments that somehow hit you quite deeply – I had so many post-its sticking out at the end. As I’ve said, I would have liked this around when my dad passed away.
Jun 04, 2020 @ 18:12:23
Thanks for sharing your experience with Barthes. This book and his life sounds fascinating. I’ve read very little of his work, but you’ve encouraged me to delve further into his books – I’ve got a collection of his essays ready for my tbr pile.
Jun 04, 2020 @ 19:28:04
He certainly was a fascinating author, and I’ve not read nearly enough of him. I should follow this up with another soon, and I must admit Camera Lucida sounds equally fascinating.
Jun 04, 2020 @ 22:57:56
It’s so interesting, this idea that we “get something” from books even when we don’t feel like we’re “getting something” from them. Or when we’re aware of, or sensing, some meaning that’s just beyond our grasp, but we stubbornly read on. Sometimes in these situations, I feel as though, if I were just to read again (and again and again?) I would figure something out, sometimes I feel sure it’s indecipherable to me. And it wasn’t until recent years that I’ve started to feel that it’s okay to have that feeling. Have you always been so comfortable with this sense of un-ease, un-certain-ty? (on the page, I mean!)
Jun 05, 2020 @ 09:40:53
I think I’ve always felt it worth trying a book even if I think it might be a bit beyond me. It kind of stretches the brain and hopefully makes you think more deeply about things. I wouldn’t claim to always get all that can be got out of a book (and sometimes I just read for pure pleasure and escapism). But for the more complex works I do always get *something* out of them and so that’s enough for me. And maybe if I go back to the book a few years later I might read it differently and get more!
Nov 10, 2020 @ 07:00:55
Dec 02, 2020 @ 06:42:49