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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.

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
Failing
Words
Matter
Trying
Fail
Matters
Reach

More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz

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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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At every sunrise I renounce the doubts of night and greet the new day of a most precious delusion.
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I have no wisdom, no skills, and no faith but I received strength, it tears the world apart. I shall break, a heavy wave, against its shores and a young wave will cover my trace.
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.
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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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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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All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.
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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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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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What has no shadow has no strength to live.
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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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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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In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.
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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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We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.
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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 weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.
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Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth. Do not follow those who lie in contempt of reality. Let your lie be even more logical than the truth itself, so the weary travelers may find repose.
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