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.

There is also poetry written to be shouted in a square in front of an enthusiastic crowd. This occurs especially in countries where authoritarian regimes are in power.

I have always knocked at the door of that wonderful and terrible enigma which is life.

It has often been observed that the repercussion of poetic language on prose language can be considered a decisive cut of a whip.

Mass communication, radio, and especially television, have attempted, not without success, to annihilate every possibility of solitude and reflection.

The real history, the one that counts and is not to be found in books, is precisely this one, the one made by simple men; and it is the only one that rules the world.