“We comfort ourselves by reliving memories of protection. Something closed must retain our memories, while leaving them their original value as images. Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those of home and, by recalling these memories, we add to our store of dreams; we are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.”
“Here is Menard's own intimate forest: 'Now I am traversed by bridle paths, under the seal of sun and shade...I live in great density...Shelter lures me. I slump down into the thick foliage...In the forest, I am my entire self. Everything is possible in my heart just as it is in the hiding places in ravines. Thickly wooded distance separates me from moral codes and cities.”
embarrassing how i always fall prey to falling in love with dead philosophers, making shrines for them on my shelf and being a quixotic adulator instead of a critical thinker. oh well... but how can you not love a melancholy, critical, tired of positivist progress-believing and blinded science dreamer, someone who turns to the attics, nooks and hideaways and not the representative big saloons, someone who talks as fast as him and takes a random baker-poet from a time and place lost just as serious as a so-called acclaimed thinker, someone who looks back to look forward, who sees places as living memories and the other way around. i don't know. i think one must love bachelard.