Childhood Lasts All Through Life.

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.

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.

Written Language Must Be Considered As A Particular Psychic Reality. The Book Is Permanent; It Is An Object In Your Field Of Vision. It Speaks To You With A Monotonous Authority Which Even Its Author Would Not Have. You Are Fairly Obliged To Read What Is Written.

The Poetic Image Exists Apart From Causality.

A Book Is Always An Emergence Above Everyday Life. A Book Is Expressed Life And Thus Is An Addition To Life.