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

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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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The purpose of poetry is to remind us / how difficult it is to remain just one person.
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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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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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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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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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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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I am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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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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What has no shadow has no strength to live.
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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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Human reason is beautiful and invincible. No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books, No sentence of banishment can prevail against it. It puts what should be above things as they are. It does not know Jew from Greek nor slave from master.
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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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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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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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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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