I bought this book on a whim, as I've never read Roland Barthes. I knew of him, of his prolific careers and different types of writing, but not of his heft.

This book is written after Barthes’s beloved mother died. Its contents are detailed on the cover of the book: it contains details of his feelings from just after his mother died.

Don’t say mourning. It’s too psychoanalytic. I’m not mourning. I’m suffering.

The book says it all. This is a collection of pain, of temporal and temporary relief, of despair, anguish, and anger. In spite of how we currently, as human beings, tend to hide our pains, Barthes displayed them and the world is a far better place for it.

The Notting Hill Editions version of this book is very well made: it allows the writing to breathe and make the room that it needs.

This book is needed by all.