Slowly poetry becomes visual because it paints images, but it is also musical: it unites two arts into one.

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

Narrative art, the novel, from Murasaki to Proust, has produced great works of poetry.

Against the dark background of this contemporary civilization of well-being, even the arts tend to mingle, to lose their identity.

The new man is born too old to tolerate the new world. The present conditions of life have not yet erased the traces of the past. We run too fast, but we still do not move enough. He looks but he does not contemplate, he sees but he does not think.

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.