Ho sceso, dandoti il braccio, almeno un milione di scale e ora che non ci sei è il vuoto ad ogni gradino. Anche così è stato breve il nostro lungo viaggio. Il mio dura tuttora, né più mi occorrono le coincidenze, le prenotazioni, le trappole, gli scorni di chi crede che la realtà sia quella che si vede. Ho sceso milioni di scale dandoti il braccio non già perché con quattr'occhi forse si vede di più. Con te le ho scese perché sapevo che di noi due le sole vere pupille, sebbene tanto offuscate, erano le tue.
E andando nel sole che abbaglia sentire con triste meraviglia com'è tutta la vita e il suo travaglio in questo seguitare una muraglia che ha in cima cocci aguzzi di bottiglia.
Mass communication, radio, and especially television, have attempted, not without success, to annihilate every possibility of solitude and reflection.
Man cannot produce a single work without the assistance of the slow, assiduous, corrosive worm of thought.
Strangely, Dante's Divine Comedy did not produce a prose of that creative height or it did so after centuries.
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.
I have been judged to be a pessimist but what abyss of ignorance and low egoism is not hidden in one who thinks that Man is the god of himself and that his future can only be triumphant?
I have always knocked at the door of that wonderful and terrible enigma which is life.
Evidently the arts, all the visual arts, are becoming more democratic in the worst sense of the word.
Happiness, for you we walk on a knife edge. To the eyes you are a flickering light, to the feet, thin ice that cracks; and so may no one touch you who loves you.
For my part, if I consider poetry as an object, I maintain that it is born of the necessity of adding a vocal sound (speech) to the hammering of the first tribal music.
Against the dark background of this contemporary civilization of well-being, even the arts tend to mingle, to lose their identity.
Narrative art, the novel, from Murasaki to Proust, has produced great works of poetry.
This proves that great lyric poetry can die, be reborn, die again, but will always remain one of the most outstanding creations of the human soul.
But poets were not considered dangerous and they were advised to exercise self-censorship. At most, poets were requested not to write at all. I took advantage of this negative liberty.
