An Excess Of Childhood Is The Germ

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.

Irony Gives Us, At Little Expense, The Impression That We Are Experienced Psychologists.

Any Comparison Diminishes The Expressive Qualities Of The Terms Of The Comparison.

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.

Even A Minor Event In The Life Of A Child Is An Event Of That Child's World And Thus A World Event.