Reverie is not a mind vacuum. It is rather the gift of an hour which knows the plenitude of the soul.

The night dreamer cannot articulate a cogito. The night dream is a dream without a dreamer.

In living off all the reflecting light furnished by poets, the I which dreams the reverie reveals itself not as poet but as poetizing I.

It is not a question of observation which propels mankind forward as if toward a looking glass of great magnitude; it is an instance of aggrandized reflection that insinuates the human psyche to the inhuman.

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.

Words, in their distant past, have the past of my reveries.

Love is never finished expressing itself, and it expresses itself better the more poetically it is dreamed.