Dreaming By The River, I Dedicated My

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 Dream Remains Overloaded With The Badly Lived Passions Of Daytime Life. Solitude In The Nocturnal Dream Is Always A Hostility. It Is Strange. It Isn't Really Our Solitude.

The Word Chrysalis Alone Is An Unmistakable Indication That Here Two Dreams Are Joined Together, Dreams That Be-speak Both The Repose And Flight Of Being, Evening's Crystallization And Wings That Open To The Light.

If I Were Asked To Name The Chief Benefit Of The House, I Should Say: The House Shelters Day-dreaming, The House Protects The Dreamer, The House Allows One To Dream In Peace.

If There Is Any Realm Where Distinction Is Especially Difficult, It Is The Realm Of Childhood Memories, The Realm Of Beloved Images Harbored In Memory Since Childhood. These Memories Which Live By The Image And In Virtue Of The Image Become, At Certain Times Of Our Lives And Particularly During The Quiet Age, The Origin And Matter Of A Complex Reverie: The Memory Dreams, And Reverie Remembers.