“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.
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