Art cannot progress by sticking to what is already familiar.

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.

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

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 demand that poetry be immediately understandable to everyone is truly absurd.

The history of the creative progress of individual artists shows that, along with their spiritual growth and the increasing complexity of their inner life, their forms of expression become more complex.

The age of sages is past; the age of specialists has come.