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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.

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
Finished
Allow
Enigmatic
Reality
Quests
Doe
Quest
Think
Settle
Thinking
Settling
Achieved
Impulse

More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz

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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 true enemy of man is generalization.
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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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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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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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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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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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At every sunrise I renounce the doubts of night and greet the new day of a most precious delusion.
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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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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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The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.
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A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.
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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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Language is the only homeland.
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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 child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
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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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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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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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