We Believe We Can Also Show That

The Repose Of Sleep Refreshes Only The Body. It Rarely Sets The Soul At Rest.

We Must Listen To Poets.

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.

Very Often, I Confess, The Teller Of Dreams Bores Me. His Dream Could Perhaps Interest Me If It Were Frankly Worked On. But To Hear A Glorious Tale Of His Insanity! I Have Not Yet Clarified, Psychoanalytically, This Boredom During The Recital Of Other People's Dreams. Perhaps I Have Retained The Stiffness Of A Rationalist. I Do Not Follow The Tale Of Justified Incoherence Docilely. I Always Suspect That Part Of The Stupidities Being Recounted Are Invented.

Sometimes, When I Am Tired Of So Many Oscillations, I Look For Refuge In A Word Which I Begin To Love For Itself. Resting In The Heart Of Words, Seeing Clearly Into The Cell Of A Word, Feeling That The Word Is The Seed Of A Life, A Growing Dawn... The Poet Vandercammen Says All That In A Line: "a Word Can Be A Dawn And Even A Sure Shelter."