Words, In Their Distant Past,

The Cleverer I Am At Miniaturizing The World, The Better I Possess It.

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.

There Are Children Who Will Leave A Game To Go And Be Bored In A Corner Of The Garret. How Often Have I Wished For The Attic Of My Boredom When The Complications Of Life Made Me Lose The Very Germ Of Freedom!

A Universe Comes To Contribute To Our Happiness When Reverie Comes To Accentuate Our Repose. You Must Tell The Man Who Wants To Dream Well To Begin By Being Happy. Then Reverie Plays Out Its Veritable Destiny; It Becomes Poetic Reverie And By It, In It, Everything Becomes Beautiful. If The Dreamer Had "the Gift" He Would Turn His Reverie Into A Work. And This Work Would Be Grandiose Since The Dreamed World Is Automatically Grandiose.

A Clear Conscience Is, For Me, An Occupied Conscience-never Empty-the Conscience Of A Man At Work Until His Last Breath.