It is from the womb of art that criticism was born. >>
We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation >>
I consider it useless and tedious to represent what exists, because no >>
Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly rackin >>
Inside every man there is a poet who died young. >>
War talk by men who have been in a war is always interesting; whereas >>
Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.