He Who Ceases To Learn Cannot Adequately

The Metaphor Is~ An Origin, The Origin Of An Image Which Acts Directly, Immediately.

The Repose Of Sleep Refreshes Only The Body. It Rarely Sets The Soul At Rest. The Repose Of The Night Does Not Belong To Us. It Is Not The Possession Of Our Being. Sleep Opens Within Us An Inn For Phantoms. In The Morning We Must Sweep Out The Shadows.

Nobody Knows That In Reading We Are Re-living Our Temptations To Be A Poet. All Readers Who Have A Certain Passion For Reading, Nurture And Repress, Through Reading, The Desire To Become A Writer.

If There Is Any Realm Where Distinction Is Especially Difficult, It Is The Realm Of Childhood Memories, The Realm Of Beloved Images Harbored In Memory Since Childhood. These Memories Which Live By The Image And In Virtue Of The Image Become, At Certain Times Of Our Lives And Particularly During The Quiet Age, The Origin And Matter Of A Complex Reverie: The Memory Dreams, And Reverie Remembers.

Childhood Lasts All Through Life. It Returns To Animate Broad Sections Of Adult Life... Poets Will Help Us To Find This Living Childhood Within Us, This Permanent, Durable Immobile World.