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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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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
Children
Trusts
Men
Dwells
Somewhere
Argument
Inside
Wise
Child
Truth

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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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I liked beaches, swimming pools, and clinics for there they were the bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. I pitied them and myself, but this will not protect me. The word and the thought are over.
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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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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Human reason is beautiful and invincible. No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books, No sentence of banishment can prevail against it. It puts what should be above things as they are. It does not know Jew from Greek nor slave from master.
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It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today, and so you may think that I am only joking or that I've devised just one more means of praising Art with the help of irony.
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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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We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.
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What has no shadow has no strength to live.
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