In writing, you discover interior sonorities in words. Dipthongs sound differently beneath the pen. One hears them with their sounds divorced.

The great function of poetry is to give back to us the situations of our dreams.

One must live to build one's house, and not build one's house to live in.

Dreaming by the river, I dedicated my imagination to water, to clear, green water, the water that makes the meadows green.

What action could bodies and substances have if they were not named in a further increase of dignity where common nouns become proper nouns?

In order to dream so far, is it enough to read? Isn't it necessary to write? Write as in our schoolboy past, in those days when, as Bonnoure says, the letters wrote themselves one by one, either in their gibbosity or else in their pretentious elegance? In those days, spelling was a drama, our drama of culture at work in the interior of a word.

When we are children, people show us so many things that we lose the profound sense of seeing... And just how could adults show us the world they have lost! They know; they think they know; they say they know.