It Is A Poor Reverie Which Invites

The Great Function Of Poetry Is To Give Back To Us The Situations Of Our Dreams.

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.

What Action Could Bodies And Substances Have If They Were Not Named In A Further Increase Of Dignity Where Common Nouns Become Proper Nouns?

Why Should The Actions Of The Imagination Not Be As Real As Those Of Perception?

Imagination Is A Tree. It Has The Integrative Virtues Of A Tree. It Is Root And Boughs. It Lives Between Earth And Sky. It Lives In The Earth And The Wind. The Imagined Tree Imperceptibly Becomes A Cosmological Tree, The Tree Which Epitomises A Universe, Which Makes A Universe.