Once upon a time there were mass media, and they were wicked, of course, and there was a guilty party. Then there were the virtuous voices that accused the criminals. And Art (ah, what luck!) offered alternatives, for those who were not prisoners to the mass media.

Fear prophets and those prepared to die for the truth, for as a rule they make many others die with them, often before them, at times instead of them.

I am an old consumer of papers. I cannot avoid reading my newspapers every morning.

We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.

The truth is a young maiden as modest as she is beautiful, and therefore she is always seen cloaked.

Is it possible to say "It was a beautiful morning at the end of November" without feeling like Snoopy?

Poetry is not a matter of feelings, it is a matter of language. It is language which creates feelings.