The paradise of ashes

I have a soft spaot in my heart for French philosophers who use a lot of words to say very little. The Psychoanalysis of Fire by Gaston Bachelard sits on my bookshelf, it's orange cover glows like the fire it describes. I've read this book of and on for several years. I'll read a bit and return to it later. Much of it means nothing to me, still I am in dazzeld by the twists and turns of the words, the linguistic spectacle. In the book, Bachelard says fire brings memories of his father--lighting the hearth or scolding him if you gets too close to the stove. I too think of my father when I think of fire.