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I'm fighting against the bad poet who is prone to using too many words.
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
Prone
Using
Poet
Fighting
Words
Many
More quotes by Wislawa Szymborska
Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.
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We're extremely fortunate not to know precisely the kind of world we live in. One would have to live a long, long time, unquestionably longer than the world itself.
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I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
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Nothing's a gift, it's all on loan
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Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there's no such thing. Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
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Out of every hundred people, those who always know better: fifty-two.
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Dying - you can't do that to a cat.
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Four billion people on this earth, but my imagination is still the same. It's bad with large numbers. It's still taken by particularity. It flits in the dark like a flashlight, illuminating only random faces while all the rest go blindly by, never coming to mind and never really missed. . . . I can't tell you how much I pass over in silence.
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I'm drowning in papers.
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Somewhere out there the world must have an end.
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I'm one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.
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Poetic talent doesn't operate in a vacuum. There is a spirit of Polish poetry.
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No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses.
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I am who I am. A coincidence no less unthinkable than any other.
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Secret codes resound. Doubts and intentions come to light.
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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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All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination. Even the richest, most surprising and wild imagination is not as rich, wild and surprising as reality. The task of the poet is to pick singular threads from this dense, colorful fabric.
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This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.
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I am a tarsier and a tarsier's son, the grandson and great-grandson of tarsiers, a tiny creature, made up of two pupils and whatever simply could not be left out.
Wislawa Szymborska