Me, today, greeting my PDP pals in Paris (and elsewhere around the globe)
In the springtime . . . In the fall . . . In the summer when it sizzles . . . In the winter when it drizzles . . . Every moment . . . Every moment of the year . . .
We know now that a text is not a line of words releasing a single 'theological' meaning (the 'message' of the Author-God) but a multidimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, blend and clash. The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture.
From The Death of the Author (1968) by Roland Barthes (1915-1980)