Today not even a universal fire could make the torrential poetic production of our time disappear. But it is exactly a question of production, that is, of hand-made products which are subject to the laws of taste and fashion.

Art is the production of objects for consumption, to be used and discarded while waiting for a new world in which man will have succeeded in freeing himself of everything, even of his own consciousness.

It has often been observed that the repercussion of poetic language on prose language can be considered a decisive cut of a whip.

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 always knocked at the door of that wonderful and terrible enigma which is life.

Poetry is the art which is technically within the grasp of everyone: a piece of paper and a pencil and one is ready.