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The purpose of poetry is to remind us / how difficult it is to remain just one person.

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
Remind
Remain
Poetry
Purpose
Difficult
Persons
Person

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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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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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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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The partition separating life from death is so tenuous. The unbelievable fragility of our organism suggests a vision on a screen: a kind of mist condenses itself into a human shape, lasts a moment and scatters.
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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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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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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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A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.
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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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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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Human reason is beautiful and invincible. No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books, No sentence of banishment can prevail against it. It puts what should be above things as they are. It does not know Jew from Greek nor slave from master.
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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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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The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
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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 soul exceeds its circumstances.
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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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The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.
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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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