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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.
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
Loses
Spoken
Animal
Flames
Word
Hardly
Past
Destroyed
Without
Emotions
Perishable
Nothing
Meaning
Echo
Country
Wall
Echoes
Emotion
Flame
More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz
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 am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy
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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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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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What has no shadow has no strength to live.
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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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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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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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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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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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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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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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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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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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The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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Language is the only homeland.
Czeslaw Milosz