Words, In Their Distant Past, Have The

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.

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.

To Go Upstairs In The Word House Is To Withdraw Step By Step; While To Go Down To The Cellar Is To Dream.

The Reveries Of Two Solitary Souls Prepare The Sweetness Of Loving.

The Characteristic Of Scientific Progress Is Our Knowing That We Did Not Know.