What is the source of our first suffering? It lies in the fact that we hesitated to speak. It was born in the moment when we accumulated silent things within us.
A house that has been experienced is not an inert box. Inhabited space transcends geometrical space.
Our house is our corner of the world.
We must listen to poets.
Love is never finished expressing itself, and it expresses itself better the more poetically it is dreamed.
Imagination is a tree. It has the integrative virtues of a tree. It is root and boughs. It lives between earth and sky. It lives in the earth and the wind. The imagined tree imperceptibly becomes a cosmological tree, the tree which epitomises a universe, which makes a universe.
Daydream transports the dreamer outside the immediate world to a world that bears the mark of infinity.
Man is a creation of desire, not a creation of need.
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.
One must live to build one’s house, and not build one’s house to live in.
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.
The characteristic of scientific progress is our knowing that we did not know.
Actually, however, life begins less by reaching upward, than by turning upon itself. But what a marvelously insidious, subtle image of life a coiling vital principle would be! And how many dreams the leftward oriented shell, or one that did not conform to the rotation of its species, would inspire!
There is no original truth, only original error.
The human being taken in his profound reality as well as in his great tension of becoming is a divided being, a being which divides again, having permitted himself the illusion of unity for barely an instant. He divides and then reunites.
Reverie is not a mind vacuum. It is rather the gift of an hour which knows the plenitude of the soul.
Words, in their distant past, have the past of my reveries.
To feel most beautifully alive means to be reading something beautiful...
The reveries of two solitary souls prepare the sweetness of loving.
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.