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In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.

Czeslaw Milosz

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Czeslaw Milosz
Age: 93 †
Born: 1911
Born: June 30
Died: 2004
Died: August 14
Diplomat
Essayist
Pedagogue
Poet
Translator
University Teacher
Writer
Clarksburg
West Virginia
Miłosz
Czelaw Milosz
Rooms
Maintaining
Silence
Conspiracy
Word
Maintain
Sound
Shot
Truth
Sounds
Like
Shots
Unanimously
People
Integrity
Pistol
Room
Pistols

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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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Consciousness even in my sleep changes primary colors. The features of my face melt like a wax doll in the fire. And who can consent to see in the mirror the mere face of man?
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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The purpose of poetry is to remind us / how difficult it is to remain just one person.
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The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.
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Do not feel safe. The poet remembers. You can kill one, but another is born. The words are written down, the deed, the date.
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I imagine the earth when I am no more: Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley. Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
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A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.
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What is this enigmatic impulse that does not allow one to settle down in the achieved, the finished? I think it is a quest for reality.
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For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.
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I think that I am here, on this earth, to present a report on it, but to whom I don't know. As if I were sent so that whatever takes place has meaning because it changes into memory.
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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
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I am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy
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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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A man should not love the moon. An ax should not lose weight in his hand. His garden should smell of rotting apples, And grow a fair amount of nettles.
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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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Forget the suffering You caused others. Forget the suffering Others caused you. The waters run and run, Springs sparkle and are done, You walk the earth you are forgetting.
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We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.
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A day so happy. Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden. Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers. There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess. I know no one worth my envying him.
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At every sunrise I renounce the doubts of night and greet the new day of a most precious delusion.
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