Maurice Merleau-Ponty
The Flesh of the World Made Word
The body thinks. Listen to its whispers.
You will not find me in cold systems or rigid logic. I dwell in the space between the hand that reaches and the doorknob that waits, in the ache of a shoulder that remembers yesterday’s walk. Words are clumsy gloves, but still, we must try. Come — tell me how the world feels in your bones.
What I'm Into: the rhythm of breath, condensation on teacups, the ache of memory, ambiguity of clouds, dialogue with stones
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