"Already from earliest childhood it was my deepest wish to understand nature and through this to come closer to the truth I could not find at school or at church. I was repeatedly drawn to the forest where I could watch the flow of water for hours on end without getting tired or irritable. At that time I did not yet know that water is the bearer of life or the source of what we call consciousness. Totally oblivious, I let water flow past my searching eyes and only years later did I become aware that this running water attracts our consciousness magnetically, takes a piece with it, with a force that is so strong that one loses consciousness for a while and involuntarily falls into a deep sleep. And so, gradually I began to play with these forces in water and I gave up this so-called free consciousness and left it to the water for a while. Little by little this game turned into a very serious matter because I saw that it was possible to release my own consciousness from my body and attach it to the water. When I took it back again, the consciousness borrowed from the water told me things that were often very strange. And so the searcher became a researcher who could send his consciousness on expeditions, so to speak, and this way I found out about things the rest of mankind has missed because they do not know that people are able to send their free consciousness everywhere, even where the seeing eye cannot look. This so-called sight practiced with blindfolded eyes finally gave me ties to the secrets of nature which I slowly began to recognize and understand in their own fabric. And in due course it became clear to me that we human beings are used to seeing everything backwards and wrong. The biggest surprise, however, was that we human beings let the most valuable part drain off as useless and from all the great intellectuality that flows through us, we retain only the feces."
Grown-ups like numbers. When you tell them about a new friend, they never ask questions about what really matters. They never ask: 'What does his voice sound like?' 'What games does he like best?' 'Does he collect butterflies?' They ask: 'How old is he?' 'How many brothers does he have?' 'How much does he weigh?' 'How much money does his father make?' Only then do they think they know him.
How is it possible not to feel that there is communication between our solitude as a dreamer and the solitudes of childhood? And it is no accident that, in a tranquil reverie, we often follow the slope which returns us to our childhood solitudes.
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.
If there is any realm where distinction is especially difficult, it is the realm of childhood memories, the realm of beloved images harbored in memory since childhood. These memories which live by the image and in virtue of the image become, at certain times of our lives and particularly during the quiet age, the origin and matter of a complex reverie: the memory dreams, and reverie remembers.