Happiness, for you we walk on a knife edge. To the eyes you are a flickering light, to the feet, thin ice that cracks; and so may no one touch you who loves you.

Evidently the arts, all the visual arts, are becoming more democratic in the worst sense of the word.

In reality art is always for everyone and for no one.

Man cannot produce a single work without the assistance of the slow, assiduous, corrosive worm of thought.

However, poetry does not live solely in books or in school anthologies.

This proves that great lyric poetry can die, be reborn, die again, but will always remain one of the most outstanding creations of the human soul.

I have been judged to be a pessimist but what abyss of ignorance and low egoism is not hidden in one who thinks that Man is the god of himself and that his future can only be triumphant?