Our House Is Our Corner Of The

Sometimes, When I Am Tired Of So Many Oscillations, I Look For Refuge In A Word Which I Begin To Love For Itself. Resting In The Heart Of Words, Seeing Clearly Into The Cell Of A Word, Feeling That The Word Is The Seed Of A Life, A Growing Dawn... The Poet Vandercammen Says All That In A Line: "a Word Can Be A Dawn And Even A Sure Shelter."

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.

Perhaps It Is Even A Good Idea To Stir Up A Rivalry Between Conceptual And Imaginative Activity. In Any Case, One Will Encounter Nothing But Disappointments If He Intends To Make Them Cooperate. The Image Can Not Provide Matter For A Concept. By Giving Stability To The Image, The Concept Would Stifle Its Life.

The Reverie We Intend To Study Is Poetic Reverie. This Is A Reverie Which Poetry Puts On The Right Track, The Track An Expanding Consciousness Follows. This Reverie Is Written, Or, At Least, Promises To Be Written. It Is Already Facing The Great Universe Of The Blank Page. Then Images Begin To Compose And Fall Into Place.

A Pretext-not A Cause-is Sufficient For Us To Enter The "solitary Situation", The Situation Of The Dreaming Solitude. In This Solitude, Memories Arrange Themselves In Tableaux. Decor Takes Precedence Over Drama. Sad Memories Take On At Least The Peace Of Melancholy.