umphs of Nature. Semiology (my semiology,nat least) is generated by an intolerancenof this mixture of bad faith andngood conscience which characterizes thengeneral morality.” Barthes set out to examinenmuch more than novels and plays;nhis objective wasn’t simply to put downnwords about words. He spoke of beingninfluenced by Saussure, Sartre, andnBrecht: a linguist, an existentialist, and ansmelly communist. He was associatednwith the Te/Que/group. Thus Barthes isncommonly considered to be a radical. Innmany ways he was. However, the stancenhe took wasn’t necessarily leftist in orientation.nAn essay about Voltaire, “ThenLast Happy Writer,” opens as follows:nWhat have we in common, today,nwith Voltaire? From a modern pointnof view, his philosophy is outmoded.n. . . [AJtheists no longer throw themselvesnat the feet of deists, who moreovernno longer exist. Dialectics hasnkilled off Manicheanism, and we rarelyndiscuss the ways of Providence.. . .nI was about to say: there is no longernan Inquisition. This is wrong, ofncourse. What has disappeared is thentheater of persecution, not persecutionnitself: the auto-da-fe has beennsubtilized into a police operation, thenstake has become a concentrationncamp, discreetly ignored by itsnneighbors.nIsn’t it possible to apply this descriptionnto the Soviet Union and the way it appearsnto many in the West?nOarthes’s role, as evidenced by hisntentative probings into the environmentnas described by sociology and literature,nseems to have been to call attention tonhow things that aren’t ordinarilynrecognized as influential actually aren(e.g., the surface of a text). That Barthesnwas often guilty of expressing himself innjargon is undeniable, as is the fact that henis typically less than morally sensitive innhis texts. Still, the approaches he developedn(early Barthes is not the same as thenlater product) can be useful, even in areasnbeyond the conventional boundaries ofnthe literary.nBarthes, as Susan Son tag perceptivelynpoints out in her introduction to A BarthesnReader, was primarily an aesthete;nhe remained one throughout his widerangingninvestigation. Other literaryntheorists and critics become much morenlike politicians and propagandists thannanything else when they move into thenwider world. As Paul Hollander describesnin Political Pilgrims, there isnalmost an endemic dissatisfaction withnthe status quo felt by Western intellectualsnthat leads them to sing the praises ofnChina, Cuba, or even Albania (thenSoviet Union is generally “out” at present).nHollander notes that idealism and anfeeling of being overlooked in their ownncountries contribute to the pilgrimagesnand subsequent paeans. I suggest thatnthe before-mentioned isolation and feelingnof being ineffectual is also part of it:nthe literary theorists want to expressnthemselves in forums beyond the pj^esnof Diacritics, Glyph, or even the NewnYork Review of Books. A question thatnarises is why the public listens to suchnobservations: after all, few would be willingnto believe or even read a medical doctor’snobservations on astronomy or annastronomer’s view of health care. Thatntheorists and critics are read and believednseems to indicate that there are indeednsigns everywhere and that those who cannmake deep readings of books can applynthat same methodology to readingnforeign societies. So Esquire, Harper’s,nand other magazines feature articles bynscholars and writers on the state ofnwhatever, and major newspapers solicitncomments from them on world affairs.nEveryone is then happy—in theory.nSome, including Susan Sontag, do betternwhen they stick to aesthetics.nSusan Sontag’s repertoire is a vast one.nShe has written novels, short stories,ntheory, and criticism, made films, andnher introductions to the works of othersnare legion. Sontag is truly a daughter ofnless prolific writers, Ludwig Wittgensteinnand Walter Benjamin, at least in terms ofnher style. That is, the propositional formsnof Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus isnoften evident. Benjamin thought thatnnnlittle things, fragments, were importantnand indicative of larger entities; Sontagnexamines small things, as best exemplifiednin her “Notes on Camp.” Her fictionnis at its best when she presents annorganized series (Wittgenstein) of fragmentsn(Benjamin) rather than when shensustains a narrative. Thus, her shortnstories typically have an allusiveness thatnis more satisfying than the oppressivenplodding of her novels. The Benefactornand Death Kit. The same is true of hernessays. The use of what can be called thenordered fragment is very characteristic ofnmuch modem discourse; Sontag’s handlingnis among the best. She has a facilitynthat permits the reader to more fiiUynassemble what she provides. In a sense,nher writing is often not unlike cubism:nfor some, a Braque is nothing more thannbric-a-brac; the synthesis and cohesionnescape them.nIf Susan Sontag is known for onenessay, it’s her “Trip to Hanoi.” It wasnoriginally published in Esquire in Junenand July of 1968 and was reprinted innStyles of Radical Will in 1969- (Styles ofnRadical Will also includes her “What’snHappening in America (1966),” whereinnshe proclaims, “The white race is thencancer of human history.”) “Trip tonHanoi” is not included in A Susan SontagnReader, undoubtedly due to spacenlimitations. According to a story in thenNew York Times Book Review (“SusannSontag: Past, Present and Future” bynCharles Ruas, 24 October ’82), “Shenwishes she could have included ‘Trip tonHanoi,’ if only as a gesture of defiancenagainst the present piecemeal rejectionnof the 60’s and growing cultural conservatism.n” That wish indicates that Sontagnhas strength of character and that shendoesn’t disown her past, as many writersnare wont to do, especially those who havenwritten similar pieces. “Trip to Hanoi” isnamong the most idiotic and insensitivenessays ever written by any writer. If Sontagnwas considered the intellectualn”Hanoi” Jane Fonda because of it, thennMs. Fonda is mistreated, since she can atnleast cite her less-than-massive cerebralnwmmm^XlnAprU 1983n