Our house is our corner of the world.

There are reveries so deep, reveries which help us descend so deeply within ourselves that they rid us of our history. They liberate us from our name. These solitudes of today return us to the original solitudes.

By listening to certain words as a child listens to the sea in a seashell, a word dreamer hears the murmur of a world of dreams.

Ideas are refined and multiplied in the commerce of minds. In their splendor, images effect a very simple communion of souls.

A word is a bud attempting to become a twig. How can one not dream while writing? It is the pen which dreams. The blank page gives the right to dream.

It is better to live in a state of impermanence than in one of finality.

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