Em suma, é preciso confessar que existem dois tipos de leitura: a leitura em animus e a leitura em anima. Não sou o mesmo homem quando leio um livro de idéias, em que o animus deve ficar vigilante, pronto para a crítica, pronto para a réplica, ou um livro de poeta, em que as imagens devem ser recebidas numa espécie de acolhimento transcendental dos dons. Ah, para fazer eco a esse dom absoluto que é uma imagem de poeta seria necessário que nossa anima pudesse escrever um hino de agradecimento! O animus lê pouco; a anima, muito.
Não é raro o meu animus repreender-me por ler demais.
Ler, ler sempre, melíflua paixão da anima. Mas quando, depois de haver lido tudo, entregamo-nos à tarefa, com devaneios, de fazer um livro, o esforço cabe ao animus. E sempre um duro mister, esse de escrever um livro. Somos sempre tentados a limitar-nos a sonhar.
French writer and philosopher (1884-1962)
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"Topoanalysis, then, would be the systematic psychological study of the sites of our intimate lives. In the theater of the past that is constituted by memory, th stage setting maintains the characters in their dominant roles. At times we think we know ourselves in time, when all we know is a sequence of fixations in the spaces of the being's stability - a being who does not want to melt away, and who, even in the past, when he sets out in search of things past, wants time to "suspend" its flight. In its countless alveoli space contains compressed time. That is what space is for."
7502Far from the immensities of sea and land, merely through memory, we can recapture, by means of meditation, the resonances of this contemplation of grandeur. But is this really memory? Isn’t imagination alone able to enlarge indefinitely the images of immensity? In point of face, daydreaming, from the very first second, is an entirely constituted state. We do not see it start, and yet it always starts the same way, that is, it flees the object nearby and right away it is far off, elsewhere, in the space of elsewhere.
Here is Menard's own intimate forest: 'Now I am traversed by bridle paths, under the seal of sun and shade...I live in great density...Shelter lures me. I slump down into the thick foliage...In the forest, I am my entire self. Everything is possible in my heart just as it is in the hiding places in ravines. Thickly wooded distance separates me from moral codes and cities.
I am a dreamer of words, of written words. I think I am reading; a word stops me. I leave the page. The syllables of the word begin to move around. Stressed accents begin to invert. The word abandons its meaning like an overload which is too heavy and prevents dreaming. Then words take on other meanings as if they had the right to be young. And the words wander away, looking in the nooks and crannies of vocabulary for new company, bad company.