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A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.
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
Winter
Mercy
Weak
Walks
Half
Human
Humans
Corridors
Like
Hospitals
More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz
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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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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What has no shadow has no strength to live.
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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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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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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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Language is the only homeland.
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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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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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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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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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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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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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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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At every sunrise I renounce the doubts of night and greet the new day of a most precious delusion.
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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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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
Czeslaw Milosz
