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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

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
Clovers
Fisherman
Bees
Circles
Ends
World
Mends
Glimmering
Clover

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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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Every poet depends upon generations who wrote in his native tongue he inherits styles and forms elaborated by those who lived before him. At the same time, though, he feels that those old means of expression are not adequate to his own experience.
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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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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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A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.
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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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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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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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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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Language is the only homeland.
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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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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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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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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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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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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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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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