O reason reason abstract phantom of the waking state I had already expelled you from my dreams now I have reached a point where those dreams are about to become fused with apparent realities: now there is only room here for myself.
Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life which make it pungent intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict in the zone where black and white clash.
Fear of error which everything recalls to me at every moment of the flight of my ideas this mania for control makes men prefer reason’s imagination to the imagination of the senses. And yet it is always the imagination alone which is at work.
Can the knowledge deriving from reason even begin to compare with knowledge perceptible by sense?