Childhood knows unhappiness through men. In solitude, it can relax its aches. When the human world leaves him in peace, the child feels like the son of the cosmos.

So, like a forgotten fire, a childhood can always flare up again within us.

For in the end, the irreality function functions as well in the face of man as in the face of the cosmos. What would we know of others if we did not imagine things?

Happy is the man who knows or even the man who remembers those silent vigils where silence itself was the sign of the communion of souls!

The reverie would not last if it were not nourished by the images of the sweetness of living, by the illusions of happiness.

In our view any awareness is an increment to consciousness, an added light, a reinforcement of psychic coherence. Its swiftness or instantaneity can hide this growth from us. But there is a growth of being in every instance of awareness. Consciousness is in itself an act, the human act.

To live life well is to express life poorly; if one expresses life too well, one is living it no longer.