Best 31 quotes of Eugenio Montale on MyQuotes

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

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.

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.

Evidently the arts, all the visual arts, are becoming more democratic in the worst sense of the word.

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.

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.

Holidays - Have no pity.

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

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.

I have always knocked at the door of that wonderful and terrible enigma which is life.

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?

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

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

Man cannot produce a single work without the assistance of the slow, assiduous, corrosive worm of thought.

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

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

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

Poetry is the art which is technically within the grasp of everyone: a piece of paper and a pencil and one is ready.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Too many lives are needed to make just one.

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

E andando nel sole che abbaglia sentire con triste meraviglia com'è tutta la vita e il suo travaglio in questo seguitare una muraglia che ha in cima cocci aguzzi di bottiglia.

Eppure resta che qualcosa è accaduto, forse un niente che è tutto.

Ho sceso, dandoti il braccio, almeno un milione di scale e ora che non ci sei è il vuoto ad ogni gradino. Anche così è stato breve il nostro lungo viaggio. Il mio dura tuttora, né più mi occorrono le coincidenze, le prenotazioni, le trappole, gli scorni di chi crede che la realtà sia quella che si vede. Ho sceso milioni di scale dandoti il braccio non già perché con quattr'occhi forse si vede di più. Con te le ho scese perché sapevo che di noi due le sole vere pupille, sebbene tanto offuscate, erano le tue.