For my part, if I consider poetry as an object, I maintain that it is born of the necessity of adding a vocal sound (speech) to the hammering of the first tribal music.

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

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

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.

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.

I have always knocked at the door of that wonderful and terrible enigma which is life.

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