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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
Fail
Matters
Reach
Failing
Words
Matter
Trying

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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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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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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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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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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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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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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 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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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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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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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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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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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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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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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 soul exceeds its circumstances.
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Language is the only homeland.
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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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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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