At All Times And In All Fields

The Night Dreamer Cannot Articulate A Cogito. The Night Dream Is A Dream Without A Dreamer.

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

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.

What Is The Source Of Our First Suffering? It Lies In The Fact That We Hesitated To Speak... It Was Born In The Moment When We Accumulated Silent Things Within Us.

When The Image Is New, The World Is New.