"I can’t help but dream of a kind of criticism that would not try to judge but to bring an oeuvre, a book, a sentence, an idea to life; it would light fires, watch the grass grow, listen to the wind, and catch the seafoam in the breeze and scatter it. It would not multiply 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 lightening of possible storms."
-Michel Foucault, The Masked Philosopher