You need to read Gaston Bachelard outside, slowly, with great patience. You need to be free to pick up a stone, feel the breeze on your face, enjoy the Sun’s warmth on your skin, hear the water tinkling at your feet. Read him—this subversive humanist, one critic says—in the library and you won’t get it; you’ll toss the book and run away. Read him in the fresh air of outdoors and his unique way of thinking will insinuate itself into the way you see the world and reawaken, even energize, something you probably didn’t know you had: an imagination with taproots in the unconscious reverie of substances. Read him at his pace and Bachelard will school you in the slow grace of true poetry.