A Pretext-not A Cause-is Sufficient For Us

Words Are Clamor-filled Shells. There's Many A Story In The Miniature Of A Single Word!

There Is No Original Truth, Only Original Error.

The Poetic Image Is A Sudden Salience On The Surface Of The Psyche

Happy Is The Man Who Knows Or Even The Man Who Remembers Those Silent Vigils Where Silence Itself Was The Sign Of The Communion Of Souls!

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.