Eugenio Montale quotes:

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?

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.

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.

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.

Narrative art, the novel, from Murasaki to Proust, has produced great works of poetry.

Strangely, Dante's Divine Comedy did not produce a prose of that creative height or it did so after centuries.

Mass communication, radio, and especially television, have attempted, not without success, to annihilate every possibility of solitude and reflection.

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.

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.

However, poetry does not live solely in books or in school anthologies.

The most dangerous aspect of present-day life is the dissolution of the feeling of individual responsibility. Mass solitude has done away with any difference between the internal and the external, between the intellectual and the physical.

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.

Against the dark background of this contemporary civilization of well-being, even the arts tend to mingle, to lose their identity.

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.

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.

In reality art is always for everyone and for no one.

Slowly poetry becomes visual because it paints images, but it is also musical: it unites two arts into one.

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.

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.

The poet does not know - often he will never know - whom he really writes for.

Holidays - Have no pity.

There is also poetry written to be shouted in a square in front of an enthusiastic crowd. This occurs especially in countries where authoritarian regimes are in power.

Forests, lakes, and rivers, clouds and winds, stars and flowers, stupendous glaciers and crystal snowflakes - every form of animate or inanimate existence, leaves its impress upon the soul of man. - Orison Swett Marden Bring me with your hands that flower which yearns Up to the ultimate transparent white Where all of life into its essence burns: Bring me that flower impassioned of the light.

True poetry is similar to certain pictures whose owner is unknown and which only a few initiated people know.

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."

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

Too many lives are needed to make just one.

The new man is born too old to tolerate the new world. The present conditions of life have not yet erased the traces of the past. We run too fast, but we still do not move enough. He looks but he does not contemplate, he sees but he does not think. He runs away from time, which is made of thought, and yet all he can feel is his own time, the present.

The real history, the one that counts and is not to be found in books, is precisely this one, the one made by simple men; and it is the only one that rules the world.

Many of today's verses are prose and bad prose.

I do not go in search of poetry. I wait for poetry to visit me.