An abyss seems to have opened between the intellectual cosmopolites of culture and the people, hungry for word and meaning.

It's not the suffering of birth, death, love that the young reject, but the suffering of endless labor without dream, eating the spare bread in bitterness, being a slave without the security of a slave.

The people always know that some of the grain will be good, some of the crop will be saved, some will return and bear the strength of the kernel, that from the bloodiest year some survive to outfox the frost.

No art can develop until it penetrates deeply into the life of the people.

I am luminous with age.

Suddenly many movements are going on within me, many things are happening, there is an almost unbearable sense of sprouting, of bursting encasements, of moving kernels, expanding flesh.

It was the bumble bee and the butterfly who survived, not the dinosaur.