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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.
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
MiĆosz
Czelaw Milosz
Walks
Sparkle
Suffering
Forgetting
Forget
Springs
Water
Waters
Running
Caused
Others
Spring
Earth
Done
Walk
More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz
The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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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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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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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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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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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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In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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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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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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The purpose of poetry is to remind us / how difficult it is to remain just one person.
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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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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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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 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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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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