A Special Kind Of Beauty Exists Which

Any Work Of Science, No Matter What Its Point Of Departure, Cannot Become Fully Convincing Until It Crosses The Boundary Between The Theoretical And The Experimental: Experimentation Must Give Way To Argument, And Argument Must Have Recourse To Experimentation.

In Living Off All The Reflecting Light Furnished By Poets, The I Which Dreams The Reverie Reveals Itself Not As Poet But As Poetizing I.

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."

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.

We Comfort Ourselves By Reliving Memories Of Protection