One Doesn't Read Poetry While Thinking Of

What Is The Source Of Our First Suffering? It Lies In The Fact That We Hesitated To Speak... It Was Born In The Moment When We Accumulated Silent Things Within Us.

In Our Life As A Civilized Person In The Industrial Age, We Are Invaded By Objects; How Could An Object Have A "force" When It No Longer Has Individuality?

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.

Childhood Knows Unhappiness Through Men. In Solitude, It Can Relax Its Aches. When The Human World Leaves Him In Peace, The Child Feels Like The Son Of The Cosmos.

By Following "the Path Of Reverie"-a Constantly Downhill Path-consciousness Relaxes And Wanders-and Consequently Becomes Clouded. So It Is Never The Right Time, When One Is Dreaming, To "do Phenomenology."