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.
The dream remains overloaded with the badly lived passions of daytime life. Solitude in the nocturnal dream is always a hostility. It is strange. It isn’t really our solitude.
A clear conscience is, for me, an occupied conscience-never empty-the conscience of a man at work until his last breath.
The spoken reverie of substances calls matter to birth, to life, to spirituality.
To verify images kills them, and it is always more enriching to imagine than to experience.
Every corner in a house, every angle in a room, every inch of secluded space in which we like to hide, or withdraw into ourselves, is a symbol of solitude for the imagination; that is to say, it is the germ of a room, or of a house.
Irony gives us, at little expense, the impression that we are experienced psychologists.
Childhood knows unhappiness through men. In solitude, it can relax its aches. When the human world leaves him in peace, the child feels like the son of the cosmos.
A book is always an emergence above everyday life. A book is expressed life and thus is an addition to life.
I am alone so I dream of the being who has cured my solitude, who would be cured by solitudes. With its life, it brought me the idealizations of life, all the idealizations which give life a double, which lead life toward it summits, which make the dreamer too live by splitting...
For a knowledge of intimacy, localization in the spaces of our intimacy is more urgent than determination of dates.
All knowledge is in response to a question. If there were no question, there would be no scientific knowledge. Nothing proceeds from itself.
The blank page gives us the right to dream.
Childhood lasts all through life.
Dreaming by the river, I dedicated my imagination to water, to clear, green water, the water that makes the meadows green.
Sleep refreshes only the body. It rarely sets the soul at rest.
To live life well is to express life poorly; if one expresses life too well, one is living it no longer.
To go upstairs in the word house is to withdraw step by step; while to go down to the cellar is to dream.
The house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.
The only possible proof of the existence of water, the most convincing and the most intimately true proof, is thirst.