A hope, which he thought long dead, glowed again in his heart. - René Daumal

The angst of paramnesia — the sense of “deja vu” — is not purely and simply erased in poetic feeling; it is overcome by a contact made by consciousness with the universal, it becomes the feeling of a reminiscence of something that has existed for all eternity, that the poet has not created, but unveiled, and that we recognize immediately.

I broke in, suggesting he should have a drink first so as to avoid the risk — to him — of having his tongue roll up into a ball and — to me — of having my lug-holes hammered at without doing my brains any good whatsoever.
He agreed with a gesture which consisted of holding up a small cask of Tokay at arm’s length above his head and my head respectively, the unimpeded flow from the open bung-hole sloshing into our stomachs in accordance with the method known as “never letting it touch the sides.”
Then he took up his story rather more clearly:
“The Kaffir, who tended the garden and looked after the chickens, in Cracow, used to sleep in the pigeon loft. He said it was ‘very good for the breath.’ One night, I had this terrifying dream. A huge corkscrew, which was the earth, was spinning round, turning on its axis and twisting in its own spiral, just like the signs outside American barbershops, and I could see myself, no bigger than a bug but not hanging on so well, slither and stumble over the helix, and with my thoughts sent whirling down moving staircases made of a priori shapes. Suddenly, the fatal moment, there is a loud crack, my neck snaps, I fall flat on my face and I emerge in a splash of sparks before the Kaffir who had come to wake me. He says: ‘Did you have an attack of the nasties, then? Come and look at this.’ And he leads me to the pigeon loft and gets me to peep through a hole in the wall. I put my eye to it. I see a terrifying sight: a huge corkscrew, which was the Earth, was spinning round, turning on its axis and twisting in its own spiral, just like the signs outside American barbershops, and I could see myself, no bigger than a bug, but not hanging on so well. …”
Eyes popping, the bumps on his forehead lit up, his moustache bristling, little Sidonius began the story again, which slotted into itself endlessly like the popular refrains everybody knows. He spoke feverishly, mangling his words. I listened, paralyzed with horror, at least ten times to his

The cock crowing in the milky dawn thinks its call raises the sun; the child howling in a closed room thinks its cries open the door. But the sun and the mother go their own way, following the laws of their beings. Those who see us, even though we cannot see ourselves, opened the door for us, answering our puerile calculations, our unsteady desires, and our awkward efforts with a generous welcome.