If there is any realm where distinction is especially difficult, it is the realm of childhood memories, the realm of beloved images harbored in memory since childhood. These memories which live by the image and in virtue of the image become, at certain times of our lives and particularly during the quiet age, the origin and matter of a complex reverie: the memory dreams, and reverie remembers.

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

Our house is our corner of the world.

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

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!

Why should the actions of the imagination not be as real as those of perception?

True poetry is a function of awakening. It awakens us, but it must retain the memory of previous dreams.