True poetry is similar to certain pictures whose owner is unknown and which only a few initiated people know.

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

Today not even a universal fire could make the torrential poetic production of our time disappear. But it is exactly a question of production, that is, of hand-made products which are subject to the laws of taste and fashion.

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

I do not go in search of poetry. I wait for poetry to visit me.

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

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