“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 only possible proof of the existence of water, the most convincing and the most intimately true proof, is thirst.

Man is an imagining being.

For a knowledge of intimacy, localization in the spaces of our intimacy is more urgent than determination of dates.

Through imagination, thanks to the subtleties of the irreality function, we re-enter the world of confidence, the world of the confident being, which is the proper world for reverie.

A house that has been experienced is not an inert box. Inhabited space transcends geometrical space.

Our house is our corner of the world.

The reflected world is the conquest of calm.

Ideas are invented only as correctives to the past. Through repeated rectification of this kind one may hope to disengage an idea that is valid.

When the image is new, the world is new.

The characteristic of scientific progress is our knowing that we did not know.

Our whole childhood remains to be reimagined. In reimagining it, we have the possibility of recovering it in the very life of our reveries as a solitary child.

To verify images kills them, and it is always more enriching to imagine than to experience.

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

Cosmic reveries separate us from project reveries. They situate us in a world and not in a society. The cosmic reverie possesses a sort of stability or tranquility. It helps us escape time. It is a state.

We comfort ourselves by reliving memories of protection.

The night dreamer cannot articulate a cogito. The night dream is a dream without a dreamer.

I advance all of my canvas at one time.

I am so tired of waking to the blank canvas of morning and realizing it won’t be painted with you.

I love to go down to the schoolyard and watch all the little children jump up and down and run around yelling and screaming. They don’t know I’m only using blanks.

I like Stallone, because he writes. He sits down with a blank page and comes up with another Rambo movie. That isn’t very easy for anybody. He’s made it successful on top of that.

I become a bit of a blank page in public. And that’s precisely why I like acting.

We are turning our prisons into living tombs, inhabited by doomed men living in everlasting blank despair.

Even though I know who I am, musically I’m a blank canvas. I know what colors I want to use, but I don’t know what picture I want to paint yet.

I always thought I’d like my own tombstone to be blank. No epitaph, and no name. Well, actually, I’d like it to say ‘figment.’