Against the dark background of this contemporary civilization of well-being, even the arts tend to mingle, to lose their identity.
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.
Mass communication, radio, and especially television, have attempted, not without success, to annihilate every possibility of solitude and reflection.
Man cannot produce a single work without the assistance of the slow, assiduous, corrosive worm of thought.
Evidently the arts, all the visual arts, are becoming more democratic in the worst sense of the word.
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.
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.
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.
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?