Environment grinds us, forces us to adjust, and--consciously or not--kills our most precious possession: that something which enables us to speak with ourselves and with God.

It is a grave error for historians of literature to interpret the national spirit of the age in an oversimplified manner, ignoring the complexity of various cultural and life processes. Instead of using their imagination, they try to read the future by observing the hands of a clock which is still busy measuring the past.

Tradition remains alive only when we struggle with it.

From laboratories employing complex apparatus, poetry often emerges into the outside world after a long lapse of time, just as some scientific discoveries become common property only after they have entered the blood stream of the generations.

The spirit of the age is not synonymous with what the public likes.

The solitude of the poet is the uniqueness of his experience, and the particulaity of his sensitivity and imagination.

The public, regardless of its social origin, likes, above all, that which is easily accessible.