The birth of the work means the explanation of the author's death.

This is a literary theory put forward by Roland Barthes. After roland barthes put forward the famous concept of "the death of the author", the dominant position of the author was subverted, and the text was restored to freedom and gained an independent position. However, the author's death is not to give the freedom of interpretation to the reader completely, but to the text itself. The reader, like the author, is just a place to confide, a receiver, and the real freedom is still given to the text itself. What Barthes pursues is a free interpretation space and a three-dimensional and pluralistic text production space.

For a long time, the author has been regarded as the sole and permanent owner of the work, while the reader only has the right to benefit from the work, that is, the reader only has the right to choose and accept the work, but has no right to participate in the creation. This form implies a theme of authority: the author has a certain right over the reader, and he forces the reader to accept a certain meaning in the work, which is of course correct and true; thus, there is a critical force of right meaning (its flaw is a critical ethics of' misunderstanding' and' anti-meaning'): people strive to establish what the author means, regardless of what the reader understands. Since then, roland barthes has revealed such a message to us: the author is in the position of commanding everything, while the readers are almost overwhelmed. In fact, in this case, the work becomes unique, and there is no reason to explain it, and there is no room for development. For readers, it just means accepting or rejecting.

For this reason, roland barthes published the famous Death of the Author in 1968. In the article "The Death of the Author", Barthes pointed out that it is only a recent event that the author became the master of the work, and the author can only exist with the work at the same time. "It is the language, not the author, who is speaking; Writing is impersonalization as a prerequisite (never to be confused with the realistic novelist's view of * * *), so that only language, not' I', is at work and performing. " Barthes also distinguishes between the author and the writer in the traditional sense. The former corresponds to the traditional "work" and the latter corresponds to a productive "text". In the theory of works, the relationship between the author and the work is equivalent to the relationship between father and son, but in the theory of text, the author's subjective position is subverted, and the subject is just a synonym of "I" in a language, not a real person. The birth of the concept of text declared the author's death. Because in Barthes' view, the text is a multidimensional and three-dimensional interpretation space, not a concrete thing, and there is no so-called fixed original meaning, so there is no need for the author to continue to exist. He said: "We know that if we want to give writing a future, we must overthrow this myth: the birth of readers must be at the expense of the author's death." Barthes believes that the traditional theory of works allows the author to dominate everything in the works, which obscures the practical role of readers. In order to enable readers to fully realize their own practical value, critics believe that Barthes' Death of the Author subverts the old author-centered structure and establishes a new reader-centered structure.

In short, this theory actually tells us that when a work is written, the author has no power to interpret it, and the original intention that the author wants to express is not unique. The power of interpretation is entirely given to the reader. If there are 1 Hamlets in the eyes of 1 people, then all of them are established. The composition of the death of a loved one

The firecrackers in Le Ballon Rouge forever, amid the cries of relatives and friends, my father's coffin slowly fell into the grave, and my heart was full of tears at this time, although my eyes were no longer crying ... I thought of the bright red hydrogen balloon when I was sixteen years old more than once. Under the blue sky, the bright red balloon was particularly conspicuous. At the age of sixteen, I was thick with my father.

I have always prided myself as a poet among my sisters, but I don't know what words to use to express my feelings at this time ... My father has gone, and he has taken him to the world with him, and Le Ballon Rouge has stung my heart, making it impossible for me to confirm all this sudden ... My ears are filled with my father's voice, so kind, and that call is a complete baptism for me, no matter where I go. I really can't accept that I am insulated from my father's sacred title. Although I am no longer young, I am still attached to my dead father like a young son coquetry in my arms. For my father's departure, I seem to have experienced a century of choice. Time is frozen at this moment, and I feel that the whole person has been semi-mechanized. When I say goodbye to my father for the last time, my head is buzzing, and my father's image and Le Ballon Rouge are shaking in front of me. Everything tells me clearly that my father has left us. And my Le Ballon Rouge will also go away with my memory, although when it dies, I am not too sad ... I am the oldest of the sisters, and my father loves me the most among all the sisters, because I have always been a obedient, hardworking and clever girl in his heart, and he is delighted with my every success ... When I was sorting out my father's relics with my sisters, we found in the attic that, All the awards, certificates of honor, textbooks, homework and even cursive paper for practicing calligraphy of our five sisters from childhood are carefully tied up, and my things are the most complete. Those materials, transcripts, graduation certificate registration forms that I took part in the self-study exam, and even tofu blocks published in various tabloids and magazines that I didn't usually pay attention to, were carefully cut and pasted by my father. When I saw these things, Tears once again occupy my eyes, and I seem to snuggle up in my father's arms again and feel his tender touch ... Those newspaper clippings are marked by my father's handwriting, each of which embodies a father's deep love for his children. Imagine what kind of mood my father had when sorting out these things, his hopes and longings ... Everything can't be verified after his father left ... Today, when I sat in front of the computer, I put my thoughts in words. I don't know if my father in heaven can feel it, but I know that I have been working hard, trying to do what I want to do, and trying to make my father in heaven happy forever! Ask for an article about death

The name of death Three young people saw a funeral procession in a small town.

They found out that the deceased were their two friends: one named Friendship and the other named Happy, and they were murdered by a man nicknamed Death.

The youngest of the three said to his two friends, "Who is this guy nicknamed' Death'? Let's go to him together and avenge our friends! " On the way, they met several people who looked flustered. One of the old ladies told them that "death" was chasing them and they had to run away quickly, otherwise they would be killed, and advised others to run away together. If they met "death", they would die.

They told the old lady that they had come to kill "death".

At their repeated requests, the old lady told them that "death" was under an old oak tree on the top of the mountain behind the small village.

The three of them excitedly walked to the top of the mountain, and took out their sharp knives, ready to kill "death" at any time.

But unexpectedly, when they came to the old oak tree on high alert, they didn't see the hideous "death" they imagined, but found a box of glittering gold coins.

They immediately dropped their sharp knives and counted the gold coins with ecstasy, forgetting all about the search for "death".

The leading young man said, "We must keep these gold coins, otherwise they will be considered stolen and thrown into prison.

Well, let's draw lots. Whoever has the shortest sign will go to town to buy food, and the other two will stay and keep the gold coin. Tomorrow we will divide the gold coin and go our separate ways.

"The youngest boy got the shortest ticket, and he went to the town to buy food with a few gold coins.

The two gold coin keepers have their own ulterior motives. Finally, they came up with the same plan: when their friend comes back with food, kill him, then eat the food, and then divide the gold coin that should have been divided into three parts into two parts.

when the young man who bought food walked into the town, he thought, if poison is put into these foods, then those gold coins can be owned by me alone.

So, he ate his fill first, then put a colorless and tasteless poison in his food and drink, and returned to his friends that night.

Unexpectedly, he was killed by two friends just after he came back.

They proudly ate the food and drinks bought by their companions, and a few minutes later, they both died of poisoning.

It never occurred to them that they would be killed by "death" like their friends "friendship" and "happiness".

What is even more unexpected is that the "death" that killed them is actually greed hidden behind gold coins.

because of greed, friendship, happiness and life will all die. Writing a composition about the death of a loved one

In everyone's life, the road can't always be smooth, and everyone is bound to encounter difficulties and setbacks.

When you are faced with difficulties and setbacks, you must never be timid or retreat. You must face them bravely, find ways to overcome them, and overcome them, so that you are equal to defeating yourself.

I had the same experience once.

One day, our teacher asked us to make an examination paper written by the teacher himself. I finished the first few questions easily, but I was stumped by the last question. I thought about it left and right, and then asked me to type it back. I tried everything and racked my brains for a long time, but I didn't come up with a solution to this problem.

Ten minutes have passed, twenty minutes have passed, thirty minutes have passed, thirty-five minutes have passed ... It seems that there are still five minutes to collect the papers. What should I do? Just when I was about to give up, I remembered what my mother said to me: "Don't give up easily, as long as you stick to the end, you are the best."

"So I started a brain war again.

finally, in the last few minutes, my eyes suddenly lit up and I found a solution to this problem.

at that time, I thought,' Isn't this method right in front of my eyes? Why didn't I see it?' Speaking of which, write an essay about my childhood death. Childhood, like an endless stream, slowly flows in my heart. In this stream, there are both happy laughter and sad tears, but what I remember most is a stupid thing I did in my childhood. It was when I was four years old. One morning, my grandmother was cooking in the kitchen and found that there was no salt. Because I'm the only one left at home, what will happen if she goes out by herself and leaves me alone at home? So I felt uneasy. At this time, I saw through my grandmother's difficulties and volunteered to say to her, "I'll help you buy the salt back." "You?" Grandma looked at me doubtfully. "Yes! I have been there several times! " (Actually, I haven't been there.) Grandma nodded helplessly. Soon, I bought salt from the grocery store, and I was glad that I could work for adults. I accidentally stepped on a banana peel on the ground. Suddenly, I fell, and the salt bag fell to the ground and broke, and the glistening salt spilled all over the floor. I immediately panicked and thought: The salt fell on the ground and got dirty, so I have to tell my grandmother the bad news quickly. I saw Grandma Wang washing rice next door. I suddenly had a brainwave. I thought: Since rice can be washed with water, so can salt. Thinking of this, I immediately borrowed a basin from Grandma Wang. I went to the street to put salt into the basin and ran to the faucet in the courtyard. The water quickly filled the basin. I shook the basin vigorously and then put my hand in it to stir it. Unexpectedly, the basin was empty, and I was very upset. I ran home at once. When I got home, I told my grandmother what happened. Before I finished, my grandmother burst into laughter. She touched my head and said with a smile, "Silly boy, salt is not washed as clean as rice, it is soluble in water." Then I laughed again. From this incident, I learned a truth: everything should be thought twice. Childhood is like a child. There are also sad tears. In my childhood, there were more interesting things, laughter and laughter. My second uncle and my third uncle liked fishing very much. For this reason, they bought a lot of things related to fishing in the sea. I remember three years ago, on May 1 ST Labor Day, my second uncle and my third uncle took me fishing outdoors when they were free on vacation. The composition about the death of their loved ones

The firecrackers of Le Ballon Rouge forever kept coming and going. My father's coffin slowly fell into the grave, and my heart was filled with tears at this time, although my eyes were no longer in tears ... More than once, I thought of the bright red hydrogen balloon when I was sixteen years old. Under the blue sky, the bright red balloon was particularly conspicuous. At the age of sixteen, I proudly walked across the street under the traction of my father's thick hand. Today, the scenes seemed to be just around the corner.

I have always prided myself as a poet among my sisters, but I don't know what words to use to express my feelings at this time ... My father has gone, and he has taken him to the world with him. Le Ballon Rouge has stung my heart, making it impossible for me to confirm all this sudden ... My ears are ringing with my father's voice, so kind, and the call is a complete baptism for me. No matter where I go, I can feel his breath. I really can't accept that I am insulated from my father's sacred title. Although I am no longer young, I am still attached to my dead father like a young son coquetry in my arms. For my father's departure, I seem to have experienced a century of choice. Time is frozen at this moment, and I feel that the whole person has been semi-mechanized. When I say goodbye to my father for the last time, my head is buzzing, and my father's image and Le Ballon Rouge are shaking in front of me. Everything tells me clearly that my father has left us. And my Le Ballon Rouge will also go away with my memory, although when it dies, I am not too sad ... I am the oldest of the sisters, and my father loves me the most among all the sisters, because I have always been a obedient, hardworking and clever girl in his heart, and he is delighted with my every success ... When I was sorting out my father's relics with my sisters, we found in the attic that, All the awards, certificates of honor, textbooks, homework and even cursive paper for practicing calligraphy of our five sisters from childhood are carefully tied up, and my things are the most complete. Those materials, transcripts, graduation certificate registration forms that I took part in the self-study exam, and even tofu blocks published in various tabloids and magazines that I didn't usually pay attention to, were carefully cut and pasted by my father. When I saw these things, Tears once again occupy my eyes, and I seem to snuggle up in my father's arms again and feel his warm touch ... Those newspaper clippings are marked by my father's handwriting, and each stroke embodies a father's deep affection for his children.