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gaston bachelard might be the most beautiful phenomenologist i know. speaking of inhabited, intimate spaces as if cloaked in the garments of personal memories - he dignifies oneiric and imaginative consciousness. by him, topoanalysis is made special, poetic, quasi-religious, to be almost sacred:

candle in the cellar, shut-in attic, huts of charcoal burners; labyrinths of corridors, rotundas and chapels as sanctuaries for secrets; nooks, nests, and corners as refuge for dreams.

bachelard, in his poetics of space, clothed spaces in a way that is maternal and womblike. it is sheltering. it is warm and fond and local.

he is exploring something very special when he wrote that poetic image lies at the origin of consciousness and of language. image is at the threshold of speech and thought. our subconscious is not a linguistic phenomenon.

sometimes, like recalling an image of childhood home, i dream of a certain pair of eyes - so kind and familiar. here bachelard’s thesis lies: the ontology of the poetic image exists outside the realms of psychology and psychoanalysis.

for rationalists - this is like a daily crisis. it’s foreign to its own causality. precedes language. abundant in silence.

it’s more like a ripple. or a hum that reverberates in the chest - mine or yours.