Forget the death of the author; people would much rather look at the face of the author than the text of the author. Faces. Ugly writers are beautiful. Ravaged, line-crazed, chain-smoking, alcoholic Marguerite Duras, beautiful. Bald Michel Foucault with his spectral stare, beautiful. Roland Barthes himself, with his weak chin, his doe-soft eyes, his film-noir fag and mac, beautiful. Barthes says the author is dead, but everyone wants to watch him or any author light a cigarette, eat breakfast, sip thh good wine and be an author without writing. Non-writing writers make us feel so close to them.

Konkretion, Marion May Campbell.

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