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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends

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
Ends
Never
Think
Thinking
Expedition
Expeditions
Companion
Sweet

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In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.
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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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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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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
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They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds. I put this book here for you, who once lived So that you should visit us no more.
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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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Language is the only homeland.
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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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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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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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What has no shadow has no strength to live.
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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.
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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 history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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From life, from the apple cut by the flaming knife, what grain will be saved? My son, believe me, nothing remains, Only adult toil, the furrow of fate in the palm. Only toil, Nothing more.
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I liked beaches, swimming pools, and clinics for there they were the bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. I pitied them and myself, but this will not protect me. The word and the thought are over.
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I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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