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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.

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
Thought
Swimming
Pool
Beach
Clinics
Bones
Pitied
Liked
Pools
Flesh
Beaches
Protect
Clinic
Word
Bone

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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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Language is the only homeland.
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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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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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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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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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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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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.
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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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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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Forget the suffering You caused others. Forget the suffering Others caused you. The waters run and run, Springs sparkle and are done, You walk the earth you are forgetting.
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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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I am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy
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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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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without 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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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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