We Must Listen To Poets.

The Demands Of Our Reality Function Require That We Adapt To Reality, That We Constitute Ourselves As A Reality And That We Manufacture Works Which Are Realities. But Doesn't Reverie, By Its Very Essence, Liberate Us From The Reality Function? From The Moment It Is Considered In All Its Simplicity, It Is Perfectly Evident That Reverie Bears Witness To A Normal Useful Irreality Function Which Keeps The Human Psyche On The Fringe Of All The Brutality Of A Hostile And Foreign Non-self.

The Poetic Image […] Is Not An Echo Of The Past. On The Contrary: Through The Brilliance Of Any Image, The Distant Past Resounds With Echoes.

The Reverie We Intend To Study Is Poetic Reverie. This Is A Reverie Which Poetry Puts On The Right Track, The Track An Expanding Consciousness Follows. This Reverie Is Written, Or, At Least, Promises To Be Written. It Is Already Facing The Great Universe Of The Blank Page. Then Images Begin To Compose And Fall Into Place.

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

We Comfort Ourselves By Reliving Memories Of Protection. Something Closed Must Retain Our Memories, While Leaving Them Their Original Value As Images. Memories Of The Outside World Will Never Have The Same Tonality As Those Of Home And, By Recalling These Memories, We Add To Our Store Of Dreams; We Are Never Real Historians, But Always Near Poets, And Our Emotion Is Perhaps Nothing But An Expression Of A Poetry That Was Lost.