I can't help but dream about a kind of criticism that would try not to judge but to bring an ouvre, a book, a sentence, an idea to life; it would light fires, watch the grass grow, listen to the wind, and catch the sea foam in the breeze and scatter it. It would multiply not judgments but signs of existence; it would summon them, drag them from their sleep.
Perhaps it would invent them sometimes -- all the better. All the better.
Criticism that hands down sentences sends me to sleep; I'd like a criticism of scintillating leaps of imagination. It would not be sovereign or dressed in red. It would bear the lightning of possible storms.
~ Michel Foucault
Among my favourite quotes this little tidbit from the French post-modernist. I like my philosophers to be passionate and anachronistic. I can get behind someone who'll stand in a driving rain storm, face to the wind, and shake their fist at God, even if he doesn't believe in one. Especially if he doesn't believe in one.
