“The reveries of two solitary souls prepare the sweetness of loving.”

The cleverer I am at miniaturizing the world, the better I possess it.

A word is a bud attempting to become a twig. How can one not dream while writing? It is the pen which dreams. The blank page gives the right to dream.

The reverie would not last if it were not nourished by the images of the sweetness of living, by the illusions of happiness.

Nobody knows that in reading we are re-living our temptations to be a poet. All readers who have a certain passion for reading, nurture and repress, through reading, the desire to become a writer.

Reverie is not a mind vacuum. It is rather the gift of an hour which knows the plenitude of the soul.

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.

At all times and in all fields the explanation by fire is a rich explanation.

When we are children, people show us so many things that we lose the profound sense of seeing… And just how could adults show us the world they have lost! They know; they think they know; they say they know.

So, like a forgotten fire, a childhood can always flare up again within us.

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.

Love is never finished expressing itself, and it expresses itself better the more poetically it is dreamed.

One must always maintain one’s connection to the past and yet ceaselessly pull away from it.

A book is always an emergence above everyday life. A book is expressed life and thus is an addition to life.

The past of the soul is so distant! The soul does not live on the edge of time. It finds its rest in the universe imagined by reverie.

Instead of looking for the dream in reverie, people should look for reverie in the dream. There are calm beaches in the midst of nightmares.

We understand nature by resisting it.

Children come running to the truth But you’ve got to peel the skin to get the fruit And while one’s living high another’s grieving But what’s sweet by morning is bitter by the evening Oh – What’s sweet by morning is bitter by the evening.

In the hope to meet Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.

That I might live alone once with my gold! O, ’tis a sweet companion! kind and true: A man may trust it when his father cheats him, Brother, or friend, or wife. O wondrous pelf! That which makes all men false, is true itself.

Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast, Still to be powder’d, all perfum’d. Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art’s hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.

My dream artist to play at prom would be Frank Ocean. “Thinking of You” is one of my favorite songs. He makes really sweet music for slow dancing at the prom.

Sweet Swan of Avon! What a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear.

Lies sound so sweet when they are wrapped in velvet, a luxurious deception that charms my restless spirit – and I’m forever taken by beautiful things.

What peaceful hours I once enjoy’d! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.