I have always knocked at the door of that wonderful and terrible enigma which is life.
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?
Mass communication, radio, and especially television, have attempted, not without success, to annihilate every possibility of solitude and reflection.
Too many lives are needed to make just one.
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.
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.
Man cannot produce a single work without the assistance of the slow, assiduous, corrosive worm of thought.
Poetry is the art which is technically within the grasp of everyone: a piece of paper and a pencil and one is ready.
Slowly poetry becomes visual because it paints images, but it is also musical: it unites two arts into one.
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.
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.
I am perhaps a late follower of Zoroaster and I believe that the foundation of life is built upon the struggle between the two opposing forces of Good and Evil.
I do not go in search of poetry. I wait for poetry to visit me.
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.
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