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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
Walks
Half
Human
Humans
Corridors
Like
Hospitals
Winter
Mercy
Weak
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For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.
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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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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 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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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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What has no shadow has no strength to live.
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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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The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
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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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At every sunrise I renounce the doubts of night and greet the new day of a most precious delusion.
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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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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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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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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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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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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