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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.
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
Cutting
Grain
Furrow
Nothing
Apples
Flaming
Believe
Adult
Palm
Life
Saved
Palms
Son
Knife
Adults
Knives
Fate
Toil
Remains
Apple
More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz
All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.
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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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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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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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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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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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Language is the only homeland.
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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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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We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.
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A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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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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A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today, and so you may think that I am only joking or that I've devised just one more means of praising Art with the help of irony.
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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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