I am a dreamer of words, of written words. I think I am reading; a word stops me. I leave the page. The syllables of the word begin to move around. Stressed accents begin to invert. The word abandons its meaning like an overload which is too heavy and prevents dreaming. Then words take on other meanings as if they had the right to be young. And the words wander away, looking in the nooks and crannies of vocabulary for new company, bad company.

An excess of childhood is the germ of a poem.

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

A special kind of beauty exists which is born in language, of language, and for language.

What is the source of our first suffering? It lies in the fact that we hesitated to speak... It was born in the moment when we accumulated silent things within us.

Instead of looking for the dream in reverie, people should look for reverie in the dream. There are calm beaches in the midst of nightmares.

The past of the soul is so distant! The soul does not live on the edge of time. It finds its rest in the universe imagined by reverie.