Words, In Their Distant Past, Have The

In Contrast To A Dream A Reverie Cannot Be Recounted. To Be Communicated, It Must Be Written, Written With Emotion And Taste, Being Relived All The More Strongly Because It Is Being Written Down. Here, We Are Touching The Realm Of Written Love. It Is Going Out Of Fashion, But The Benefits Remain. There Are Still Souls For Whom Love Is The Contact Of Two Poetries, The Fusion Of Two Reveries.

This Word "description" May Be Disconcerting When Used To Refer To What Is Generally Called A Translation. But When One Wishes To Render A Verbal Creation (as Opposed To A Didactic Statement) From One Language To Another, He Is Confronted With Two Equally Unsatisfactory Choices. He May, According To His Talents, Elaborate A Similar, But Never Identical Creation, Or He May Describe That Creation As Completely As Possible In His Own Language.

Here Is Menard's Own Intimate Forest: 'now I Am Traversed By Bridle Paths, Under The Seal Of Sun And Shade...i Live In Great Density...shelter Lures Me. I Slump Down Into The Thick Foliage...in The Forest, I Am My Entire Self. Everything Is Possible In My Heart Just As It Is In The Hiding Places In Ravines. Thickly Wooded Distance Separates Me From Moral Codes And Cities.

The House Protects The Dreamer, The House Allows One To Dream In Peace

The Words Of The World Want To Make Sentences.