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

Too many lives are needed to make just one.

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

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.

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

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

Strangely, Dante's Divine Comedy did not produce a prose of that creative height or it did so after centuries.