I say no, it doesn't matter what the philosopher intended to say or how he felt about something, what matters is what meaning is derived from his work by the consumer. In literary studies there is this idea called the Death of Author, which essentially says that the intent of the author, and the context in which he wrote isn't relevant to interpreting his work, that whoever wrote a text isn't an author as much as he is a scribe, who came into existence with the text, does not exist outside of writing the text, and ceases to exist with the completion of the text and it's subsequent dissemination — who and what he is doesn't matter, he was nothing more than a vehicle for the transcription of the text, which should be interpreted in isolation, as if we don't know who wrote it or anything about him. — Bacchus
This takes me back a ways. I remember this idea from college days back in the late 1960s.
It is possible to put too much emphasis on the author, his or her particulars, his or her motivation, his or her intention, and so on. The author's biography may not explain anything about the author's work. Or it may explain a great deal.
Divorcing the author from the text, on the other hand, strikes me as... what, stupid? Ill advised? Out of touch with reality? An act of "consumer" hubris to suppose that the reader can know more about the author's book than the author? It is one thing to read a book and say to one's self, "I don't care when, where, what, why, or how about the author--this was a great book" or "This book is just trash". Quite often we don't know anything about the author (usually because we didn't look for any information) and quite often it doesn't matter. It's a different thing to pick up a given book and say, "Hell, I don't need to know anything about the author. He was just the typist. Whatever he thought he was saying, he was deluded anyway, so... screw it. I'll just decide what this means, and it will be right as rain.
So, let me bring the average elevation of this discussion down to earth. The typical pulp porn title (like the "In Hand" series of cheap paperbacks from the 1950s) actually works in the manner that Barthes proposes. The text has no significant relationship to the author. Indeed, there may not even be an "author". The text may have been written by a series of temporary typists who were following formulas such as
Use words "Levis", "zipper", "cock", "bulging basket", "throbbing", "hot" ... 3 times per page, and so forth.
The series of gay novels by Phil Andros, on the other hand, were not written by temporary typists. They were written in the 1970s-1980s by Samuel Steward, a gay professor of English in Chicago, aficionado of extremely rough S&M sex (he the slave), and a famous tattoo artist and tattoo innovator who became the "official" tattoo artist of the Hells Angels in Oakland--their choice, not his.
Had one graduated from one-handed reading matter or text (you can guess what the other hand was doing) to Phil Andros, it would have added depth and perspective to know something about the author. Same thing with John Rechy who wrote of gay hustlers in Los Angeles.
Back to the mountain top:
We don't know anything about the authors of Gilgamesh or Genesis, and that's the way it's going to stay, for better or worse. Some people are pretty sure Shakespeare was not the author of the plays ascribed to William Shakespeare, and maybe it just doesn't matter who the author was. There was a definite author, however, and the author of Shakespeare's plays had intentions that shaped his work, especially the historical plays. Was Richard III a villain, or not? Shakespeare had reasons for the role he was given in his namesake play. There was authorial intent and understanding the text requires some background.
This poem can be enjoyed without knowing who the author was, or what his concerns were.
It isn't necessary to know what literary references are contained in the lines (like, "I opened to my beloved, but my beloved had with drawen himself")
but it helps IF one understand the author's intent, and his method.
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guiltie of dust and sinne.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack’d any thing.
A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkinde, ungratefull? Ah my deare,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?
Truth Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, sayes Love, who bore the blame?
My deare, then I will serve.
You must sit down, sayes Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.
If philosophy is not quite the same as pornographic texts or 16th and 17th century poets, it isn't entirely different. Antecedents and relationships need to be considered, especially if you think of philosophy as a long conversation. Who is the author talking to? Himself? Probably not.