The Reveries Of Two Solitary Souls Prepare

By Following "the Path Of Reverie"-a Constantly Downhill Path-consciousness Relaxes And Wanders-and Consequently Becomes Clouded. So It Is Never The Right Time, When One Is Dreaming, To "do Phenomenology."

An Excess Of Childhood Is The Germ Of A Poem.

I Am A Dreamer Of Words, Of Written Words. I Think I Am Reading; A Word Stops Me. I Leave The Page. The Syllables Of The Word Begin To Move Around. Stressed Accents Begin To Invert. The Word Abandons Its Meaning Like An Overload Which Is Too Heavy And Prevents Dreaming. Then Words Take On Other Meanings As If They Had The Right To Be Young. And The Words Wander Away, Looking In The Nooks And Crannies Of Vocabulary For New Company, Bad Company.

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.

Every Corner In A House, Every Angle In A Room, Every Inch Of Secluded Space In Which We Like To Hide, Or Withdraw Into Ourselves, Is A Symbol Of Solitude For The Imagination; That Is To Say, It Is The Germ Of A Room, Or Of A House.