The real life of the work begins only when it meets those for whom it is intended.
The aesthetic universe proper to contemporary Romanian culture lives through the confrontation, mutual interference and completion of various perspectives in the comprehensive horizon of dialectical and historical materialism. Fertile ideas, invented and transferred from the field of sociology, psychology, anthropology, culturology, axiology, history or literary and art criticism, come to enrich the landscape of the philosophical aesthetics of the era, giving it brilliance, vitality and vigor.
If art is experienced non-artistically, it is not only to blame, but the cause must be sought during the complex itinerary that leads from creation to reception, from what spiritual culture proposes, to what ends up being assimilated, becoming a fact of civilization.
Art - a relatively autonomous form in the cultural plane is closely intertwined in the context of civilization with the entire system of values of the era, to which it relates and which it influences, being in turn influenced by them, so that its independence is largely limited . As a subsystem of the civilization of the era, art is part of the whole and its significant exponent, being determined by the context, but also contributing to the configuration of its spiritual profile... Integrated in civilization, art relates to the whole of life and is shaped by it, through all its links and moments.
Poetry... the transfiguration of life into the work of art.
To treat life in the spirit of art is to make of life a thing in which means and ends are identified; and to encourage such treatment is the true meaning of art and poetry.
If art is devoted to the increase of human happiness, the salvation of the oppressed, the intensification of feelings and mutual esteem, or the revelation of new or old truths upon ourselves and our connections with the world, so as to strengthen us during this hiatus... it will be true art. ; if above these values which I have summed up... it contains something of the soul of humanity, it discovers its rightful, harmonious place in the great architecture of our life.
In reading we are not looking for new ideas, but thoughts that we have thought, and which on the read page, get a stamp of confirmation. The words of others hit us with resonance, in an area that is more ours, more experienced by us. By making it vibrate, those words allow us to gather new starting points in our inner forum.
Poetry is not meaning but state, not understanding but existence.
A feeling when you try it is a living thing. And what is art if not a means by which a feeling, a content is eternalized in a form so that others can relive it?
I don't live only from books and for books. But if you want a confession, I think the things that revealed my life were mostly books.
We write less for today and more for those to come.
All that can be asked of the writer is to serve his own temperament honestly. From this sacred officiating also results the work of art and its conception.
The writer will descend from his ivory tower, often a veritable dungeon fortress, and participate in the destinies of the people from which he has been selected, becoming a social factor.
Art fixes what is transient in life, freezes destinies and gives them that irrevocable and lasting character in memory.
The fable flourishes in times of political and spiritual periphrasis.
Devotion to poetry is the mark of those chosen by the Muses. Encouraged or not, adulated by the public or disregarded, crossing fragrant meadows or dusty and noisy brooks, the predestined poet goes his way, undisturbed...
Like Eusebio, from Calderon's drama, who kills, but redeems himself by raising a cross at each grave, he may sin, however, because of his devotion. Poetry forgives him for many things, because he loves her a lot...
There is in the contemporary lyric, everywhere, a region where the poets, leaving the land of the concrete, soar towards the origins of the seen and unseen, towards the intimate essences, towards those mysterious seeds, which only open at certain calls and still, at certain records, in which intuition and intelligence use the magical, enchanting formula, half prayer and half spells...
In the lyric everywhere there is a region where poetry detaches itself from the material, throws off the earthly burden, blends with the original music of the spheres and invites, in other ways, to understanding and perhaps to consent...
It is not a question of saying to what extent such a poem, extraterrestrial, let's say, is superior to the other - the thing is impossible to determine, but also absolutely unimportant. The answer was given in time and it seems entirely plausible to us. And this answer says that both modes or areas of poetry are justified.
The lyrics require a special initiation, even more so: reading a volume of poetry is largely an act of collaboration with the author, and this effort cannot be asked of everyone. Here temperamental adherence also plays the most important of roles.
There are in modern poetry, understanding less the chronology than the spirit, in our country as in the other literatures, two ways of presenting the surrounding reality, from which poetry also starts, like all the arts, otherwise... One way, let's say , direct and one of as many detours as possible, a clear way, and a hermetic one, one accessible to everyone and another accessible only to those initiated in the mysteries that their authors carefully hide. It is not about being for one or another of these modes of poetry. So long as they are exercised with devotion, they have equal rights to our attention.
Poetry is in us, in our heart, in our soul, in their long vigils and vigils, in the barely registered thrill of a premonition, in the deluge of a drowning happiness, in the mist of a withering disappointment, in the transparent shutter that falls, like a familiar shadow, on the restful water of the Stygel. To intuit all these vibrations of the heart and soul and convey them, in the most tender notations, is to write poetry, of high quality.
No era or epoch has ever been without poetry. Like the healing herb, it grows everywhere...among the sedges, among the boulders, among the millstones of events, among the barbed wire of history, even if the masters of the earth declare it undesirable and banish it to who knows what concentration camps.. Because despite the public belief, and those who attribute the world's orders to themselves, far from being a luxury, poetry is a continuous need of the human soul, one of those principles without which, unlike the old cosmogonies, the universe would not there could be...
For art to fulfill its purpose, it must encompass what constitutes the essence of a nation.
Although art must embrace, by its very nature, all feelings, passions and ideas, however, by the way these feelings, passions and ideas are expressed and especially by their choice, art takes on characters determined by the ethnic nature of the peoples.
I am the man who sacrifices even beauty for the sake of truth...
I never sold a sound of my lyre, or a feature of my pen; I sang and wrote only according to the impulse of my soul whose urge is freedom.
Only when the work of art gives the obvious impression that it is a reflection of deep reality, that it reflects the world as much as possible, in all its dimensions, as it is, only then do we call it authentic.