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Sunday, November 13, 2011
I've been reading Gaston Bachelard's the Poetics of Space. It's interesting; I find I'll totally blank out while reading huge chunks and then suddenly something will come into focus. Does everyone read like this sometimes, I wonder?
Here's some bits I jotted down:
"To read poetry is essentially to daydream."
"Space is everything."
"Was the room a large one? Was the garret cluttered up? Was the nook warm? How was it lighted? How, too, in these fragments of space, did the human being achieve silence?"
"When two strange images meet, two images that are the work of two poets pursuing separate dreams, they apparently strengthen each other."
"dream upon their name"
And some things that came up around the text: a remedy of words, value of intimacy/ scattered/ where they feel along the wall/ in darkness/ remains
I guess, too, a product of its time (?) as "they" say, there is a huge chunk of text that romanticizes the woman's place in the house, pointing out that her attention to dusting and waxing the furniture is akin to communing with angels. I often feel this way myself when doing housework; I really look forward to my angelic face poised over a sink full of dirty dishes and some time for me to compose a beatific picture of domestic happiness over the frothiness of caked on grime while visions of sugar plums dance through my mostly empty head. *Sigh*
For further reading: Frances Yates, The Art of Memory
I'm a huge Wilkie Collins fan and intrigued by this book.
Elizabeth Robinson's Three Novels
Check out the review over at Jacket: