“...my language will always fumble, stammer in order to attempt to express it, but I can never produce anything
but a blank word, an empty vocable, which is the zero degree of all the sites where my very special desire for this
particular other (and for no other) will form.”▲
Barthes thinks that lovers are artists; they see at a reverse angle and are incredibly sensitive. Everything and anything touches them, no matter a beam of sunlight entering a room or an unwashed shirt on the wall. Love is yet to name. It cannot be put into words but may be expressed through objects and images. The lovers’ works are whispers that no one could understand. They, however, never care and just keep tearing or giggling.