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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

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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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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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It was only toward the middle of the twentieth century that the inhabitants of many European countries came, in general unpleasantly, to the realization that their fate could be influenced directly by intricate and abstruse books of philosophy.
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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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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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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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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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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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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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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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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.
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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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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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