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.

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

Too many lives are needed to make just one.

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.

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

Poetry is the art which is technically within the grasp of everyone: a piece of paper and a pencil and one is ready.