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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?

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
Without
Mankind

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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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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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The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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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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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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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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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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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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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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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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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 purpose of poetry is to remind us / how difficult it is to remain just one person.
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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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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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All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.
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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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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
Czeslaw Milosz
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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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