ALL PHILOSOPHERS HAVE THE COMMON FAULT THAT THEY START FROM MAN IN HIS PRESENT STATE AND HOPE TO ATTAIN THEIR END BY AN ANALYSIS OF HIM…BUT EVERYTHING THAT THE PHILOSOPHER SAYS ABOUT MAN IS REALLY NOTHING MORE THAN TESTIMONY ABOUT THE MAN OF A VERY LIMITED SPACE OF TIME. A LACK OF THE HISTORICAL SENSE IS THE HEREDITARY FAULT OF ALL PHILOSOPHERS; MANY, INDEED, UNCONSCIOUSLY MISTAKE THE VERY LATEST VARIETY OF MAN, SUCH AS HAS ARISEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF CERTAIN RELIGIONS, CERTAIN POLITICAL EVENTS, FOR THE PERMANENT FORM FROM WHICH ONE MUST SET OUT”.
The cruelty in the world? I don’t want to see it, I don’t want it to touch me. But it is a less apt art of being human to ignore something rather than to change your perspective on it. I have seen the choices of others and then I remember I have choices to make as well, and I would choose not to be cruel. I don’t want our world to be filled with a glossary of ignorance or ever come to a page that bids us to close the book.
Forgive me and forget me as soon as possible. I am leaving you for ever. Do not look for me, it is useless. I have become a witch from the grief and calamities that have struck me. It’s time for me to go.
"Bachelard admits that every house is first a geometrical object of planes and right angles, but asks his reader to ponder how such rectilinearity so welcomes human complexity, idiosyncrasy, how the house adapts to its inhabitants. Eschewing all simplicities of mere architectural history, mere building detail, he skews his scrutiny, moving through the house not as mere visitor, but as the master penetrator of anthro-cosmology. ‘A house that has been experienced is not an inert box’, he determines early on. ‘Inhabited space transcends geometrical space.’ As he listens to the geometry of echoes dignifying- and distinguishing- every old house, every experienced house, he probes the impact of human habitation on geometrical form, and the impact of the form upon human inhabitants."
|I am an ephemeral and not at all dissatisfied citizen of a metropolis thought to be modern because every known taste has been avoided in the furnishings and exteriors of its houses as well as in the plan of the city. Here you would never point to the traces of any monument to superstition. Morality and language are reduced to their most basic expression, indeed! These millions of people who feel no need to know one another experience such similar kinds of education, occupation and old age, that their life-spans must be several times shorter than those which a mad statistic determines for the peoples of the continent. Just as, from my window, I see new specters rolling through the thick and eternal fumes of coal fires, —our shadow of the woods, our summer’s night!— modern-day Furies, in front of my cottage which is my country and all my heart since everything here resembles this, —Death without tears, our active daughter and servant, and a despairing Love, and a pretty Crime whimpering in the mud of the street|