Mario Ruoppolo: My dear poet and comrade, you got me into this mess, you’ve got to get me out of it. You gave me books to read, you taught me to use my tongue for more than licking stamps. It’s your fault if I’m in love.
Pablo Neruda: No, this has nothing to do with me. I gave you my books but I didn’t authorize you to steal my poems. If you think you gave Beatrice the poem I wrote for Matilde–
Mario Ruoppolo: Poetry doesn’t belong to those who write it, but those who need it