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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.
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
Feels
Poet
Safe
Written
Words
Remembers
Born
Deed
Another
Date
Remember
Deeds
Feel
Kill
More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz
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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All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.
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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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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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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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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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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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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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It was only toward the middle of the twentieth century that the inhabitants of many European countries came, in general unpleasantly, to the realization that their fate could be influenced directly by intricate and abstruse books of philosophy.
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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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The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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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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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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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.
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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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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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