很难描述自己在用怎样的心情写下这篇读书笔记 —— 面对巴特的文本（怪话），我本就难以自称 “读懂”；而试图 “解释” 本就是在讨论 “如何阅读 / 解释文本” 的书，更令我惶惶不安。《文本的愉悦》并未找到中译本，只得抱着英译本啃了 10 页左右。生词颇多，读得痛苦，最终放弃。此篇「读书笔记」（如果它能称得上的话）便是这次失败的阅读的产物 —— 一些摘抄，一些二手货，以及一些大量结合了个人经历的胡言乱语。
使我下定决心提笔的，是我从巴特的话中获得的些许勇气。巴特是叛逆的，是回荡在文学批评界的 “作者已死” 的振臂高呼。而巴特又是懒散的，他并不急于阐述和辩论，而像个性鲜明的博导，不紧不慢地给出一点线索，辅以让人抓耳挠腮的比喻。他刻意远离解释性 —— 我总觉得，应该用阅读诗歌的方式去读罗兰巴特 —— 不应因读不懂而懊恼，而应因偶得而喜悦。巴特用首字母顺序来罗列章节，为了排除「这些章节间有内在的逻辑关系」这一假设。
说回「勇气」。不知从何时开始，我逐渐难以提笔，只觉得学海宽广，而自己浅薄。看完电影 / 动画，偶然想到几句，正待提笔，翻到他人评论，又觉得已被言尽，只得遗憾地放弃。又或是因为浸淫学术写作许久，经常被要求条理清晰、论证完备；与此相对的，私人感悟与体验必然零零碎碎、逻辑不清，也鲜有学术引用。长此以往，自己似乎渐渐失去 “为了愉悦而写作” 的习惯。我偶尔会羡慕一些老宅，动画看了一千多部，仍能写出像是刚入宅才会写下的评论：没有大段分析论证、没有征引与类比，只能见到存粹与热情。这不就是巴特所言的最完美的读者吗？因此，巴特给我的勇气是在这种意义上的：读者不应因知识浅薄而惭愧，而应大胆而愉快地加入对文本的解读。这种解读活动确立了读者的主体性，也确认了读者自身的存在意义。
此种文字断不适合刊登于博客：它更像是日记本上的涂涂画画 —— 凌乱且私人，很难说对其他人有用。从这个角度上来说，此时作为作者的我是傲慢的，像是在空旷的舞台上背对观众喃喃自语。总而言之，在一个普通的周四下午，我获得了久违的摸鱼特权，写下以上这些呓语，并记录于此。
Imagine someone (a kind of Monsieur Teste in reverse) who abolishes within himself all barriers, all classes, all exclusions, not by syncretism but by simple discard of that old specter: logical contradiction; who mixes every language, even those said to be incompatible; who silently accepts every charge of illogicality, of incongruity; who remains passive in the face of Socratic irony (leading the interlocutor to the supreme disgrace: self-contradiction) and legal terrorism (how much penal evidence is based on a psychology of consistency!). Such a man would be the mockery of our society: court, school, asylum, polite conversation would cast him out: who endures contradiction without shame? Now this anti-hero exists: he is the reader of the text at the moment he takes his pleasure. Thus the Biblical myth is reversed, the confusion of tongues is no longer a punishment, the subject gains access to bliss by the cohabitation of languages working side by side: the text of pleasure is a sanctioned Babel.
Neurosis is a makeshift: not with regard to "health" but with regard to the "impossible" Bataille speaks of ("Neurosis is the fearful apprehension of an ultimate impossible,” etc.); but this makeshift is the only one that allows for writing (and reading). So we arrive at this paradox: the texts, like those by Bataille—or by others—which are written against neurosis, from the center of madness, contain within themselves, if they want to be read, that bit of neurosis necessary to the seduction of their readers: these terrible texts are all the same flirtatious texts.
Thus every writer's motto reads: mad I cannot be, sane I do not deign to be, neurotic I am.
The text you write must prove to me that it desires me. This proof exists: it is writing. Writing is: the science of the various blisses of language, its Kama Sutra (this science has but one treatise: writing itself).
The pleasure of the text is not the pleasure of the corporeal striptease or of narrative suspense. In these cases, there is no tear, no edges: a gradual unveiling: the entire excitation takes refuge in the hope of seeing the sexual organ (schoolboy’s dream) or in knowing the end of the story (novelistic satisfaction). Paradoxically (since it is mass-consumed), this is a far more intellectual pleasure than the other: an Oedipal pleasure (to denude, to know, to learn the origin and the end), if it is true that every narrative (every unveiling of the truth) is a staging of the (absent, hidden, or hypostatized) father—which would explain the solidarity of narrative forms, of family structures, and of prohibitions of nudity, all collected in our culture in the myth of Noah’s sons covering his nakedness.