Quotes from Czes?aw Mi?osz

Had Beta been French, perhaps he would've been an existentialist, probably though that would not have satisfied him. He smiled contemptuously at mental speculations, for he remembered seeing philosophers fighting over garbage in the concentration camps. Human thought had no significance; subterfuge and self-deception were easy to decipher: all that really counted was the movement of matter.

Reality calls for a name, for words, but it is unbearable, and if it is touched, if it draws very close, the poet's mouth cannot even utter a complaint of Job: all art proves to be nothing compared with action. Yet to embrace reality in such a manner that it is preserved in all its old tangle of good and evil, of despair and hope, is possible only thanks to distance, only by soaring above it--but this in turn seems then a moral treason.

When, after a long life, it falls out That he takes on a form he had sought And every word carved in stone Grows its hoarfrost, what then? Torches Of Dionysian choruses in the dark mountains From when he comes. And half of the sky With its snaky clouds. A mirror before him. In the mirror the already severed, perishing Thing.

No, non imiterò mai coloro che cancellano le proprie tracce, ripudiano il proprio passato e sono morti, anche se con equilibrismi intellettuali fanno finta di essere vivi. Le mie radici sono laggiù, all'Est, su questo non v'è alcun dubbio. Anche se trovo difficile e spiacevole spiegare chi sono, bisogna pur tentare di farlo.

In 1942 in Warsaw, we were living without hope, or rather on a hope we knew to be a delusion.

What is poetry which does not save nations or people? Czes?aw Mi?osz

Queremos comprender, creemos que si vivimos lo bastante vamos a comprender el mundo; dentro de una hora, mañana, dentro de un año,... Pero quizá no importe nada comprender o no.

Who I will be when I wake after enduring

Then he wants to use himself and things So that they stand in the glow of ripeness. It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves: Who serves best doesn't always understand.

How is it, Chloe, that your pretty skirt Is torn so badly by the winds that hurt Real people, you who, in eternity, sing The hours, sun in your hair appearing And disappearing? How is that your breasts Are pierced by shrapnel, and the oak groves burn, While you, charmed, caring not at all, turn To run through forests of machinery and concrete And haunt us with the echoes of your feet?

Earth, what have I to do with thee? With your meadows where dumb beasts Grazed before the deluge without lifting their heads? What have I to do with your implacable births? So why this gracious melancholia? Is it because anger is no use?

This I wanted and nothing more. In my old age like old Goethe to stand before the face of the earth, and recognize it and reconcile it with my work built up, a forest citadel on a river of changeable lights and brief shadows.

He] Attacks the past, but fears that, having destroyed it, He will have nothing on which to lay his head.

The World" It appears that it was all a misunderstanding. What was only a trial run was taken seriously. The rivers will return to their beginnings. The wind will cease in its turning about. Trees instead of budding will tend to their roots. Old men will chase a ball, a glance in the mirror– They are children again. The dead will wake up, not comprehending. Till everything that happened has unhappened. What a relief! Breathe freely, you who have suffered much.

Come tutte le biblioteche, era chiusa al pubblica e sottoposta all'amministrazione centrale tedesca, ma conservava il vecchio personale, il quale, pur avendo stipendi da fame, rimaneva al proprio posto per un patriottismo aziendale – i bibliotecari d'altronde costituiscono una razza speciale, capace di nutrirsi del solo amore per i propri libri.

Regret, to no end, in every hour Of a long life. What beautiful work Will redeem the heartbeats of a living creature And what use to confess deeds that last forever?

The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will. What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry, as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly, under unbearable duress and only with the hope that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.

I was driven because I wanted to be like others. I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.

We are an echo that runs, skittering, through a train of rooms

Å»yjesz tu, teraz. Hic et nunc. Masz jedno ?ycie, jeden punkt. Co zd??ysz zrobi?, to zostanie, Cho?by ktoÅ› inne mógÅ' mie? zdanie.

perché esistono dei mostri che nessuno può vincere in un combattimento faccia a faccia.

alla fin fine, bisogna saper apprezzare i vantaggi che si traggono dalle proprie origini.

But there is nothing in me, just fear, nothing but the running of dark waves. I am the wind that blows and dies out in dark waters, I am the wind going and not returning, a milkweed pollen on the black meadows of the world.

WewnÄ™trzny bunt jest nieraz potrzebny dla zdrowia i bywa szczególnÄ… odmianÄ… szcz??cia. To, co mo?e by? powiedziane, bywa o wiele mniej interesujÄ…ce ni? emocjonalna magia obrony wÅ'asnego sanktuarium.