Eugenio Montale
Eugenio Montale
Eugenio Montalewas an Italian poet, prose writer, editor and translator, and recipient of the 1975 Nobel Prize in Literature. He is widely considered the greatest Italian lyric poet since Giacomo Leopardi. In 1973 he was awarded the Golden Wreath of the Struga Poetry Evenings in Struga, Macedonia...
NationalityItalian
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth12 October 1896
CountryItaly
writing connections poet
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.
aggravation speech firsts
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.
real book simple
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.
doors wonderful terrible
I have always knocked at the door of that wonderful and terrible enigma which is life.
communication reflection solitude
Mass communication, radio, and especially television, have attempted, not without success, to annihilate every possibility of solitude and reflection.
waiting
I do not go in search of poetry. I wait for poetry to visit me.
art paper pieces
Poetry is the art which is technically within the grasp of everyone: a piece of paper and a pencil and one is ready.
love-you eye ice
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.
writing doe poet
The poet does not know - often he will never know - whom he really writes for.
today prose verses
Many of today's verses are prose and bad prose.
responsibility differences solitude
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.
running moving past
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. He runs away from time, which is made of thought, and yet all he can feel is his own time, the present.
art reality art-is
In reality art is always for everyone and for no one.
character needed just-one
Too many lives are needed to make just one.