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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.
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
Place
Sent
Earth
Memory
Think
Changes
Thinking
Meaning
Memories
Present
Takes
Report
Whatever
Reports
More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz
The true enemy of man is generalization.
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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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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 soul exceeds its circumstances.
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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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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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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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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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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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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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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.
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Language is the only homeland.
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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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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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I have no wisdom, no skills, and no faith but I received strength, it tears the world apart. I shall break, a heavy wave, against its shores and a young wave will cover my trace.
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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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