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Something doesn't start at its usual time. Something doesn't happen as it should. Someone was always, always here, then suddenly disappeared and stubbornly stays disappeared.

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
Happen
Start
Doesn
Happens
Stubbornly
Someone
Disappeared
Something
Stays
Always
Usual
Time
Suddenly

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Carry on, then, if only for the moment that it takes a tiny galaxy to blink!
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Life lasts but a few scratches of the claw in the sand.
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In the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyone's existence in this world.
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History counts its skeletons in round numbers. A thousand and one remains a thousand, as though the one had never existed: an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle, ... emptiness running down steps toward the garden, nobody's place in line.
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This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.
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Today when two people decide upon a thoughtless and precipitate abbreviation of the physical space between them, they think, at least at that moment, that they're mutually attracted and drawn together by an overwhelming force.
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I'm fighting against the bad poet who is prone to using too many words.
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I have sympathy for young people, for their growing pains, but I balk when these growing pains are pushed into the foreground, when you make these young people the only vehicles of lifes wisdom.
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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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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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Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.
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There is so much Everything that Nothing is hidden quite nicely
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All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.
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I don't know the role I'm playing. I only know it's mine, non-convertible.
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Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous I don't know.
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All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination.
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Each of us has a very rich nature and can look at things objectively, from a distance, and at the same time can have something more personal to say about them. I am trying to look at the world, and at myself, from many different points of view. I think many poets have this duality.
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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.
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It's just not easy to explain to someone else what you don't understand yourself.
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