Quote

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.

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
Even
Tree
Traveler
Grows
Falsehood
Small
Weary
Lying
Grain
Reality
Contempt
Truth
Logical
May
Follow
Travelers
Find
Grow
Repose

More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz

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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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I am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy
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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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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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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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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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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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Language is the only homeland.
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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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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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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without 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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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
Czeslaw Milosz
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The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
Czeslaw Milosz
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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?
Czeslaw Milosz
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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Czeslaw Milosz
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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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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
Czeslaw Milosz