One Must Always Maintain One's

Through Imagination, Thanks To The Subtleties Of The Irreality Function, We Re-enter The World Of Confidence, The World Of The Confident Being, Which Is The Proper World For Reverie.

The Philosophy Of Poetry Must Acknowledge That The Poetic Act Has No Past, At Least No Recent Past, In Which Its Preparation And Appearance Could Be Followed.

In Order To Dream So Far, Is It Enough To Read? Isn't It Necessary To Write? Write As In Our Schoolboy Past, In Those Days When, As Bonnoure Says, The Letters Wrote Themselves One By One, Either In Their Gibbosity Or Else In Their Pretentious Elegance? In Those Days, Spelling Was A Drama, Our Drama Of Culture At Work In The Interior Of A Word.

Here Is Menard's Own Intimate Forest: 'now I Am Traversed By Bridle Paths, Under The Seal Of Sun And Shade...i Live In Great Density...shelter Lures Me. I Slump Down Into The Thick Foliage...in The Forest, I Am My Entire Self. Everything Is Possible In My Heart Just As It Is In The Hiding Places In Ravines. Thickly Wooded Distance Separates Me From Moral Codes And Cities.

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.