The Blank Page Gives Us

Reverie Is Commonly Classified Among The Phenomena Of Psychic Detente. It Is Lived Out In A Relaxed Time Which Has No Linking Force. Since It Functions With Inattention, It Is Often Without Memory. It Is A Flight From Out Of The Real That Does Not Always Find A Consistent Unreal World.

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.

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.

It Is Quite Evident That A Barrier Must Be Cleared In Order To Escape The Psychologists And Enter Into A Realm Which Is Not "auto-observant", Where We Ourselves No Longer Divide Ourselves Into Observer And Observed. Then The Dreamer Is Completely Dissolved In His Reverie. His Reverie Is His Silent Life. It Is That Silent Peace Which The Poet Wants To Convey To Us.

One Doesn't Read Poetry While Thinking Of Other Things.