“Journal excerpts by Roland Barthes about mourning his mother, Henriette, who died at eighty-four, in October, 1977.” It’s a real shame this one is behind a paywall. Favorite bits:
What I find utterly terrifying is mourning’s discontinuous character.
And:
Mourning: not a crushing oppression, a jamming (which would suppose a “refill”), but a painful availability: I am vigilant, expectant, awaiting the onset of a “sense of life”.
And also:
1st mourning
false liberty
2nd mourning
desolate liberty
deadly, without
worthy occupation
Mark Larson 