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I slide my arm from under the sleeper's head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.

Wislawa Szymborska

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Wislawa Szymborska
Age: 88 †
Born: 1923
Born: July 2
Died: 2012
Died: February 1
Critic
Essayist
Literary Critic
Mechanic
Poet
Translator
Writer
Kornik
Maria Wisława Anna Szymborska
Szymborska
Angel
Sleepers
Arms
Slide
Full
Counted
Head
Numb
Waiting
Slides
Hands
Pins
Angels
Swarming
Fallen
Sleeper

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When it comes, you’ll be dreaming that you don’t need to breathe that breathless silence is the music of the dark and it’s part of the rhythm to vanish like a spark.
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Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous I don't know.
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Out of every hundred people, those who always know better: fifty-two.
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I like being near the top of a mountain. One can't get lost here.
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They say the first sentence in any speech is always the hardest. Well, that one's behind me, anyway.
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There's simply too much fuss about myself.
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God was finally going to believe in a man both good and strong, but good and strong are still two different men.
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When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it.
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Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries.
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Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.
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I cannot imagine any writer who would not fight for his peace and quiet.
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Life lasts but a few scratches of the claw in the sand.
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When I mention somebody, that doesn't necessarily mean that I identify with him, personally or poetically. I'm extremely happy when I encounter poets who are different than I am. The ones who have their own distinct poetics provide me with the greatest experiences.
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My choices are rejections, since there is no other way, but what I reject is more numerous, denser, more demanding than before. A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable losses.
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The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand.
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Even a graphomaniac is an extremely complicated person.
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Even boredom should be described with gusto. How many things are happening on a day when nothing happens?
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I'm drowning in papers.
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Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still
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