An original poetic soul is like a prism-shaped crystal, which refracts the plain and monotonous sunlight into many, rich colors and various shades, arising from its internal structure.
The lover of genuine art, no matter what his religious or philosophical convictions, will always find in his depth enough elements to understand the poetic creation before him. Almost all men have mastered, more or less, in their own sphere and manner, all human destinies, or at least have the possibility of experiencing and inwardly understanding them.
In poetry there is no objective truth, valid for all. Everything here is a premonition of truth, an enlightened look into the mystery of existence and into the abyss of the human soul. Everything here is human and must remain human, accordingly.
Every work of art springs from an impulse of beauty... This impulse manifests itself with such force that, instinctively and impetuously, the author feels the necessary force to express his revelation. By this the artist frees himself from the burden of the unborn beauty, giving it a face and a life of its own.
"Art for art's sake" is in our times as strange an idea as "wealth for wealth," "science for science," etc.
All human actions must serve the cause of man, if they do not want to end up as vain and meaningless occupations: wealth exists for man to use it, and knowledge - to become man's guide; art must also serve a certain essential use and not a sterile pleasure...
Art, or rather poetry... propagates to the mass of readers an immense amount of testimonies and, what is more important, mediates the encounter with the notions elaborated by science; here is the great meaning of poetry, for life...
Art not only reproduces life, but also explains it; often her productions have the meaning of a verdict on the phenomena of life.
Literature cannot but be the servant of the seeker or seeker of ideas: this is one of its essential missions - a mission that literature is unable to give up, even if it wanted to.
History deals with things as they are, and poetry as they ought to be... One considers the particular as particular, with no other purpose than to relate it, and therefore in history books the episodes and events are quite different and unordered as if it were hanging on fate... while, in poetry, one of the sublime sciences and one of the disciplines close to philosophy, the particular is examined in relation to the universal.
The original writer is not the one who imitates no one, but the one whom no one can imitate.
Art and literature have value when, starting from life, intelligent life.
A people regenerated by the Revolution needs a new theater... a theater that inspires citizens' disgust with superstitions, hatred against aggressors, love of freedom, respect for laws, etc.
There is a big difference between the passionate man who wants to read a book, and the tired man who wants a book to read.
Art, more than once, itself creates new forms of being or reveals the consciousness of an as yet unsuspected life... and... literature can be not only annex, a passive and posthumous reflex of a social process, but, on the contrary, opener , creator of roads.
By poetry we understand the art of capturing life in its most intimate tremors, at the point where the boundaries of experience touch the boundless unknown, the unfathomable miracle.
To capture the emotion in the warm bed of the heart, to make the word the transparent vessel of the soul's contents, to return it to the modest and beautiful function of a submissive and faithful herald, this is the path we dream of for Romanian poetry.
The literary life of an era is, above all, a context whose endings, however diverse, testify to a solidarity, a kinship, - and any work, even when it shows itself rebellious to the attempt to sum it up, is never independent of the atmosphere of the time, to which it is connected in one way or another - if only by contrast and protest.
You don't explain anything, poet! But all things through you become explicable.
For any true poet, verse is the means of transposing reality from the realm of sensitivity to that of the intelligible, from the realm of fact to that of definition, from time to eternity, from the realm of chance to that of necessity, enclosing it in a numerical combination that does not can be composed.
The greatest art, the art that aims at eternity, can only be that which addresses itself to all mankind, synthesizing its greatest aspirations and its most righteous aspirations.
The poet: ... the one who unties the writing and then re-ties it in another way...; the one who remembers the future.
Poem: ... lie that always tells the truth.
Writer: ... he who lets his blood flow through the tip of his feather.
Art: ... battle won against death.
The poet who does not sing like the cricket without the care of winter, is not a poet.
Music is the poetry of the soul and the soul of poetry.
What poets write is not poetry, but the soul rhythm from which what they write springs and which they manage to make vibrate in others.
Poetry sleeps in suffering, / like a diamond sleeps in coal.
Poets, I know a demon who preys on us / of the soul's clear treasure / and with his light sonority / gives it to the wild, in parade clothes. / Beneath the giant waterfall of thought / it spins like an enchanted mill: / there is a rose in a maiden's smile / and a sword is made in a brave hand. / We pour into his fleeting foam / imperishable strength, / if we spin his point with wisdom; / if we do not fall from the flight of the momentum / in its creeping vanity; / This demonic serpent is the word.