The poet does not know - often he will never know - whom he really writes for.

The most dangerous aspect of present-day life is the dissolution of the feeling of individual responsibility. Mass solitude has done away with any difference between the internal and the external, between the intellectual and the physical.

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.

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

There is poetry even in prose, in all the great prose which is not merely utilitarian or didactic: there exist poets who write in prose or at least in more or less apparent prose; millions of poets write verses which have no connection with poetry.

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

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