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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
MiĆosz
Czelaw Milosz
Humans
Corridors
Like
Hospitals
Winter
Mercy
Weak
Walks
Half
Human
More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz
I think that I am here, on this earth, to present a report on it, but to whom I don't know. As if I were sent so that whatever takes place has meaning because it changes into memory.
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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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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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All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.
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What has no shadow has no strength to live.
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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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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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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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We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.
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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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The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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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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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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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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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 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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