I woke up today at the crack of noon. Determined to not let the rest of my day go to waste I threw on some clothes, grabbed a book, and was out of the door within 10 minutes. Walking out onto the street I was met by the most lovely weather--sun shining, cool breeze blowing, and not a cloud in the sky. I strolled down Henry Street, which leads me to this great park on the water nestled between the manhattan and brooklyn bridges. It's autumn now, but on my way, I came across all the signs of spring.

I had heard about the catastrophes of Hurricane Katrina. I knew that people had to leave their homes and that the water level had been so high that people couldn’t drive or walk safely in the streets. I had heard all this, but until last night, I had never actually seen photographs of the devastation that occurred in New Orleans.

 I've come to a conclusion in regards to the content of this book. It seems after all that the book is, in fact, far from a reflection on photography as it claims to be. Instead I view it as a hidden autobiographical piece of literature. Barthes seems to talk about himself a great deal and refuses to take on the perspective of someone other than him. For instance, when he describes photography he limits himself to undergoing the photograph or observing the image, both roles he has played.

I wish I could go on and on about how the photographer's (who's name I forget, and I am truly apologetic) captured moments of the aftermath of Hurricaine Katrina truly affected me, but I cannot. I liked what he did--going into New Orleans and speaking with and capturing the actual victims still trying to survive the aftermath. He went to people's homes and found people who were literally confined to the upper levels of their house because the bottom floors were flooded. He talked to them, and learned their stories.