In Writing, You Discover Interior Sonorities In

Empirical Description Involves Enslavement To The Object By Decreeing Passivity On The Part Of The Subject.

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.

Any Work Of Science, No Matter What Its Point Of Departure, Cannot Become Fully Convincing Until It Crosses The Boundary Between The Theoretical And The Experimental: Experimentation Must Give Way To Argument, And Argument Must Have Recourse To Experimentation.

We Understand Nature By Resisting It.

We Comfort Ourselves By Reliving Memories Of Protection. Something Closed Must Retain Our Memories, While Leaving Them Their Original Value As Images. Memories Of The Outside World Will Never Have The Same Tonality As Those Of Home And, By Recalling These Memories, We Add To Our Store Of Dreams; We Are Never Real Historians, But Always Near Poets, And Our Emotion Is Perhaps Nothing But An Expression Of A Poetry That Was Lost.