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.
Richard Leviton
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