Quote

They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds. I put this book here for you, who once lived So that you should visit us no 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
Miłosz
Czelaw Milosz
Dead
Pour
Used
Visit
Book
Feed
Come
Birds
Would
Graves
Millet
Seeds
Poppy
Bird
Poppies
Lived
Disguised

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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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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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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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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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All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.
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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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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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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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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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In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.
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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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The purpose of poetry is to remind us / how difficult it is to remain just one person.
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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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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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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
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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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