Quotes by Perpessicius

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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...

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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The fable flourishes in times of political and spiritual periphrasis.

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Art fixes what is transient in life, freezes destinies and gives them that irrevocable and lasting character in memory.

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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.

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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.

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We write less for today and more for those to come.

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It is an age of memories... And it is, after that, and sometimes at the same time, a cult of memories.

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Between platitude and arrogance, countless are the shades of tactics of claimants to glory.

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The truth, even embarrassing, fortifies; uncertainty, even conciliatory, relaxes the springs.

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There are many ways to tell the truth.