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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
Thinking
Expedition
Expeditions
Companion
Sweet
Ends
Never
Think

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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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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.
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Even if that is so, there will remain A word wakened by lips that perish, A tireless messenger who runs and runs Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies, And calls out, protests, screams.
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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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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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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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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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In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.
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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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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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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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A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.
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Every poet depends upon generations who wrote in his native tongue he inherits styles and forms elaborated by those who lived before him. At the same time, though, he feels that those old means of expression are not adequate to his own experience.
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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 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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