How is it possible not to feel that there is communication between our solitude as a dreamer and the solitudes of childhood? And it is no accident that, in a tranquil reverie, we often follow the slope which returns us to our childhood solitudes.

The subconscious is ceaselessly murmuring, and it is by listening to these murmurs that one hears its truth.

Daydream transports the dreamer outside the immediate world to a world that bears the mark of infinity.

There are children who will leave a game to go and be bored in a corner of the garret. How often have I wished for the attic of my boredom when the complications of life made me lose the very germ of freedom!

Literary imagination is an aesthetic object offered by a writer to a lover of books.

Every corner in a house, every angle in a room, every inch of secluded space in which we like to hide, or withdraw into ourselves, is a symbol of solitude for the imagination; that is to say, it is the germ of a room, or of a house.

Our house is our corner of the world.