The Seventh Function of Language

“Just to be clear, Superintendent, I am not a specialist in Barthes, nor strictly speaking am I a semiologist. I have an MAS in modern criticism of the historical novel, I’m preparing a linguistics thesis on acts of language, and I also run a tutorial. This semester, I’m giving a specialized course in semiology of the image, and last year I ran an introductory course on semiology for first-year students. I taught them the basics of linguistics because that’s the foundation of semiology; I told them about Saussure and Jakobson, a bit of Austin, a bit of Searle; we worked mainly on Barthes because he’s the most accessible and because he often chose his subjects from popular culture, which are more likely to pique my students’ interest than, say, his critiques of Racine or Chateaubriand, because these kids are doing media studies, not literature. With Barthes, we could spend a lot of time discussing steak-frites, the latest Citroën, James Bond … it’s a more playful approach to analysis, and that is in a sense the definition of semiology: it applies literary criticism methods to nonliterary subjects.”

“He’s not dead.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said ‘we could.’ You were talking in the past tense, as if it were no longer possible.”

“Um, no, that’s not what I meant…”

Simon Herzog and Jacques Bayard walk side by side down the university’s corridors. The young lecturer holds his satchel in one hand and a sheaf of photocopies in the other. He shakes his head when a student tries to hand him a leaflet. The student calls him a fascist, and he responds with a guilty smile, then corrects Bayard:

“Even if he did die, we could still apply his critical methods, you know…”

“What makes you think he might die? I didn’t mention the seriousness of his injuries.”

“Well, er, I doubt whether superintendents are sent to investigate all road accidents, so I deduce from that that it’s serious, and that there’s something fishy about the circumstances.”

“The circumstances are pretty straightforward, and the victim’s condition is really nothing to be worried about.”

“Really? Ah, well, I’m glad to hear it, superintendent…”

“I didn’t tell you I was a superintendent.”

“No? I just thought Barthes was so famous that the police would send a superintendent…”

“I’d never even heard of this guy until yesterday.”

The young postgrad falls silent. He looks disconcerted; Bayard is satisfied. A student in socks and sandals hands him another tract: Waiting for Godard: A One-Act Play. He puts it in his pocket and asks Herzog:

“What do you know about semiology?”

“Um, well, it’s the study of the life of signs within society.”

Bayard thinks about his Roland Barthes Made Easy. He grits his teeth.

“And in plain French?”

“But … that’s Saussure’s definition…”

“This Chaussure, does he know Barthes?”

“Er, no, he’s dead. He was the inventor of semiology.”

“Hmm, I see.”

But Bayard does not see anything. The two men walk through the cafeteria. It looks like the ruins of a warehouse and smells strongly of merguez sausage, pancakes, and marijuana. A tall, awkward-looking guy in mauve lizard-skin boots is standing on a table. Cigarette in mouth, beer in hand, he harangues some students who listen, eyes shining. As Simon Herzog has no office, he invites Bayard to sit down and, automatically, offers him a cigarette. Bayard refuses, takes out a Gitane, and says:

“So, in concrete terms, what’s the point of this … science?”

“Um, well … understanding reality?”

Bayard grimaces imperceptibly.

“Meaning?”

The young lecturer takes a few seconds to think about this. He gauges his interrogator’s capacities for abstraction—clearly quite limited—and adapts his response accordingly. If not, they’ll be going around in circles for hours.

“In fact, it’s simple. There are loads of things in our environment that have, uh, a function of use. You see?”

Hostile silence from the policeman. At the other end of the room, the guy in mauve lizard-skin boots is telling his young disciples about the events of May ’68, which, in his account, sound like a mixture of Mad Max and Woodstock. Simon Herzog tries to keep his explanation as simple as possible: “A chair is for sitting on, a table is for eating on, a desk for working at, clothes for keeping warm, et cetera. Okay?”

Icy silence.