Henry Corbin’s Creative Imagination in the Sufism of Ibn ‘Arabi, the 1998 edition with the peculiar patched-on Plotinian title Alone with the Alone and a preface by Harold Bloom, is a book I have been wandering in, more lost than not, for fifteen years. Then I’ve packed a certain amount of philosophy – contemplative, epistemological, political. I can’t think of anyone who writes quite like Waldrep no one else imagines architecture taken up in the Rapture, where “the god of small houses” marries the god of disappearing bees, no one else is shocked from sleep in the midst of a storm thinking “ antler candling.” His audacious imagination is a tonic, a bearing wall for me his wit, humanity and deep probe all make me grateful for him. On the same shelf next to the desk where I look out onto the Green Mountains, is G.C. I heard him read part of the book’s opening long poem “Muskrat Woman” at a Malahat Review event in Victoria a couple of years ago and realized I hadn’t heard anything like it before. I’ve brought a remnant of all that with me as part of my essential supplies, having spent a couple of weeks this summer mulling over what to include in this pack of rations.įirst there is the poetry, beginning with Gregory Scofield’s Witness, I Am. I am away from my library this autumn, teaching at a college in Vermont, and I miss it, those towers of books rising from the floor in my writing shed, the disorganized shelves.
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