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

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

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.

But poets were not considered dangerous and they were advised to exercise self-censorship. At most, poets were requested not to write at all. I took advantage of this negative liberty.

Art is the production of objects for consumption, to be used and discarded while waiting for a new world in which man will have succeeded in freeing himself of everything, even of his own consciousness.

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.