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.

The words of the world want to make sentences.

Ideas are invented only as correctives to the past. Through repeated rectification of this kind one may hope to disengage an idea that is valid.

Ideas are refined and multiplied in the commerce of minds. In their splendor, images effect a very simple communion of souls.

Even a minor event in the life of a child is an event of that child's world and thus a world event.

Two half philosophers will probably never a whole metaphysician make.

Reverie is not a mind vacuum. It is rather the gift of an hour which knows the plenitude of the soul.