An excess of childhood is the germ of a poem.

In our life as a civilized person in the industrial age, we are invaded by objects; how could an object have a "force" when it no longer has individuality?

We are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.

Our whole childhood remains to be reimagined. In reimagining it, we have the possibility of recovering it in the very life of our reveries as a solitary child.

Empirical description involves enslavement to the object by decreeing passivity on the part of the subject.

The words of the world want to make sentences.

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