“When everything was fineAnd the notion of sin had vanishedAnd the earth was readyIn universal peaceTo consume and rejoiceWithout creeds and utopias,I, for unknown reasons,Surrounded by the booksOf prophets and theologians,Of philosophers, poets,Searched for an answer,Scowling, grimacing,Waking up at night, muttering at dawn.What oppressed me so muchWas a bit shameful.Talking of it aloudWould show neither tact nor prudence.It might even seem an outrageAgainst the health of mankind. . .”

“When, as my friend suggested, I stand before Zeus (whether I die naturally, or under sentence of History)I will repeat all this that I have written as my defense.Many people spend their entire lives collecting stamps or old coins, or growing tulips. I am sure that Zius will be merciful toward people who have given themselves entirely to these hobbies, even though they are only amusing and pointless diversions. I shall say to him : "It is not my fault that you made me a poet, and that you gave me the gift of seeing simultaneously what was happening in Omaha and Prague, in the Baltic states and on the shores of the Arctic Ocean.I felt that if I did not use that gift my poetry would be tasteless to me and fame detestable. Forgive me." And perhaps Zeus, who does not call stamp-collectors and tulip-growers silly, will forgive.”

“In Rome on the Campo dei FioriBaskets of olives and lemons,Cobbles spattered with wineAnd the wreckage of flowers.Vendors cover the trestlesWith rose-pink fish;Armfuls of dark grapesHeaped on peach-down.On this same squareThey burned Giordano Bruno.Henchmen kindled the pyreClose-pressed by the mob.Before the flames had diedThe taverns were full again,Baskets of olives and lemonsAgain on the vendors' shoulders.I thought of the Campo dei FioriIn Warsaw by the sky-carouselOne clear spring eveningTo the strains of a carnival tune.The bright melody drownedThe salvos from the ghetto wall,And couples were flyingHigh in the cloudless sky.At times wind from the burningWould drift dark kites alongAnd riders on the carouselCaught petals in midair.That same hot windBlew open the skirts of the girlsAnd the crowds were laughingOn that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.Someone will read as moralThat the people of Rome or WarsawHaggle, laugh, make loveAs they pass by martyrs' pyres.Someone else will readOf the passing of things human,Of the oblivionBorn before the flames have died.But that day I thought onlyOf the loneliness of the dying,Of how, when GiordanoClimbed to his burningThere were no wordsIn any human tongueTo be left for mankind,Mankind who live on.Already they were back at their wineOr peddled their white starfish,Baskets of olives and lemonsThey had shouldered to the fair,And he already distancedAs if centuries had passedWhile they paused just a momentFor his flying in the fire.Those dying here, the lonelyForgotten by the world,Our tongue becomes for themThe language of an ancient planet.Until, when all is legendAnd many years have passed,On a great Campo dei FioriRage will kindle at a poet's word.”

“1. That reason is a gift of God and that we should believe in its ability to comprehend the world.2. That they have been wrong who undermined confidence in reason by enumerating the forces that want to usurp it: class struggle, libido, will to power.3. That we should be aware that our being is enclosed within the circle of its perceptions, but not reduce reality to dreams and the phantoms of the mind.4. That truth is a proof of freedom and that the sign of slavery is the lie.5. That the proper attitude toward being is respect and that we must, therefore, avoid the company of people who debase being with their sarcasm, and praise nothingness.6. That, even if we are accused of arrogance, it is the case that in the life of the mind a strict hierarchy is necessary.7. That intellectuals in the twentieth century were afflicted with the habit of baratin, i.e., irresponsible jabber.8. That in the hierarchy of human activities the arts stand higher than philosophy, and yet bad philosophy can spoil art.9. That the objective truth exists; namely, out of two contrary assertions, one is true, one false, except in strictly defined cases when maintaining contradiction is legitimate.10. That quite independently of the fate of religious denominations we should preserve a "philosophical faith," i.e., a belief in transcendence as a measure of humanity.11. That time excludes and sentences to oblivion only those works of our hands and minds which prove worthless in raising up, century after century, the huge edifice of civilization.12. That in our lives we should not succumb to despair because of our errors and our sins, for the past is never closed down and receives the meaning we give it by our subsequent acts.”

“Since poetry deals with the singular, not the general, it cannot - if it is good poetry - look at things of this earth other than as colorful, variegated, and exciting, and so, it cannot reduce life, with all its pain, horror, suffering, and ecstasy, to a unified tonality of boredom and complaint. By necessity poetry is therefore on the side of being and against nothingness.”

“Forget the sufferingYou caused others.Forget the sufferingOthers caused you.The waters run and run,Springs sparkle and are done,You walk the earth you are forgetting.Sometimes you hear a distant refrain.What does it mean, you ask, who is singing?A childlike sun grows warm.A grandson and a great-grandson are born.You are led by the hand once again.The names of the rivers remain with you.How endless those rivers seem!Your fields lie fallow,The city towers are not as they were.You stand at the threshold mute.”

“The voice of passion is better than the voice of reason. The passionless cannot change history.”