The following passage from Gaston Bachelard’s THE POETICS OF SPACE is extremely suggestive:
The phenomenology of the poetic imagination allows us to explore the being of man considered as the being of a surface, of the surface that separates the region of the same from the region of the other. It should not be forgotten that in this zone of sensitized surface, before being, one must speak, if not to others, at least to oneself. And advance always.
Gaston Bachelard, THE POETICS OF SPACE (Beacon Press, Boston), p. 222
I do not pretend to have a very precise grasp of (certainly not a ‘maximal grip on) what Bachelard meant by the above paragraph, nor of what the best interpretation of that paragraph might be (regardless of what his author’s intention was). In particular, I do not have much command over his phrase ‘the phenomenology of the poetic imagination’.
I am, however, reasonably confident that I do know what I want to do with many of the same words, namely, these:
Let’s explore the being of man considered as the being of a sensitized surface, of the surface that separates the region of the same from the region of the other.
There is more that I want to draw from Bachelard’s paragraph, but this is what I think (delusionally or not) I currently have the best grasp on. In the not too distant future — the exigencies of my paid work permitting — I will be articulating what I intend to say with these words (whether or not my intention was also Bachelard’s).
To foreshadow what I want to say: each one of us is a surface, not an interior space inside a physical cranium or inside the non-physical boundaries of a non-physical mind. The mind bears a close analogy to the skin. And once we see this, at least a few philosophical conundrums will come to seem at least a little bit less puzzling. Maybe.
In articulating this insight (or is it a delusion?), I will be drawing on Berkeley, Leibniz, and Merleau-Ponty. Will I come up with anything coherent? We will see!
Today’s homage to Plato’s SYMPOSIUM is Channing Tatum posing as a grease monkey.
Although the denotational power of words certainly fail me, I am able at least to fall back onto the expressive power of a rapturous sigh.