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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
Poet
Fighting
Words
Many
Prone
Using

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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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All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.
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I'd have to be really quick to describe clouds - a split second's enough for them to start being something else.
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What does the world get from two people/who exist in a world of their own?
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After every war someone has to tidy up.
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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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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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But they know about us, they know, the four corners, and the chairs nearby us. Discerning shadows also know, and even the table keeps quiet.
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No one feels good at four in the morning. If ants feel good at four in the morning —three cheers for the ants.
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Secret codes resound. Doubts and intentions come to light.
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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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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 prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.
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Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.
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Memory at last has what I sought.
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Existentialists are monumentally and monotonously serious they don't like to joke.
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Animals don't even try to look any different from what nature intended. They humbly wear their shells, scales, spines, plumes, pelts, and down. ... The conscious impulse to change one's appearance is found only among humans.
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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 like being near the top of a mountain. One can't get lost here.
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Carry on, then, if only for the moment that it takes a tiny galaxy to blink!
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