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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.

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
Fields
Perish
Tireless
Word
Galaxy
Interstellar
Running
Scream
Galaxies
Even
Protest
Protests
Runs
Screams
Calls
Revolving
Lips
Messenger
Remain
Messengers
Wakened

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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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We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.
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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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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 living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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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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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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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.
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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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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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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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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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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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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 am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy
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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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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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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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