For In The End, The Irreality Function

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.

In Order To Dream So Far, Is It Enough To Read? Isn't It Necessary To Write? Write As In Our Schoolboy Past, In Those Days When, As Bonnoure Says, The Letters Wrote Themselves One By One, Either In Their Gibbosity Or Else In Their Pretentious Elegance? In Those Days, Spelling Was A Drama, Our Drama Of Culture At Work In The Interior Of A Word.

Through Imagination, Thanks To The Subtleties Of The Irreality Function, We Re-enter The World Of Confidence, The World Of The Confident Being, Which Is The Proper World For Reverie.

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

Whoever Lives For Poetry Must Read Everything. How Often Has The Light Of A New Idea Sprung For Me From A Simple Brochure! When One Allows Himself To Be Animated By New Images, He Discovers Iridescence In The Images Of Old Books. Poetic Ages Unite In A Living Memory. The New Age Awakens The Old. The Old Age Comes To Live Again In The New. Poetry Is Never As Unified As When It Diversifies.