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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
Word
Hardly
Past
Destroyed
Without
Emotions
Perishable
Nothing
Meaning
Echo
Country
Wall
Echoes
Emotion
Flame
Loses
Spoken
Animal
Flames
More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz
You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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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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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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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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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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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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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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Language is the only homeland.
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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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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 soul exceeds its circumstances.
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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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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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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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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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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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A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.
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What has no shadow has no strength to live.
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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
Czeslaw Milosz