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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?

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
Even
Changes
Dolls
Men
Mere
Consent
Like
Color
Colors
Consciousness
Primaries
Fire
Primary
Sleep
Features
Face
Mirror
Doll
Faces
Mirrors
Melt

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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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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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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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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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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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We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.
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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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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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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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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
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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 am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy
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What has no shadow has no strength to live.
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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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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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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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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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