It Is Not A Question Of Observation

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

There Is No Original Truth, Only Original Error.

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.

The Reverie Would Not Last If It Were Not Nourished By The Images Of The Sweetness Of Living, By The Illusions Of Happiness.

There Are Children Who Will Leave A Game To Go And Be Bored In A Corner Of The Garret. How Often Have I Wished For The Attic Of My Boredom When The Complications Of Life Made Me Lose The Very Germ Of Freedom!