A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.” “I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. “A real ‘wasteland’ is much more terrible than any imaginary one.” How difficult it is to remain just one person,įor our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,Īnd invisible guests come in and out at will.”Īnd whoever sees that way heals his heart, “And yet the world is different from what it seems to beĪnd we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.” Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies, The other side, beyond bird, mountain, sunset.” “When I die, I will see the lining of the world. On the light they had loved, on the lilacs again in bloom.” Stumbling, he walked and looked, instead of them, There was no one leftĪnd now they had nothing, except his eyes. “Memory thus is our force, it protects us against a speech entwining upon itself like the ivy when it does not find a support on a tree or a wall.”
#Dead blonde poetry free#
He may also desire to free himself from it and elsewhere, in other countries, on other shores, to recover, at least for short moments, his true vocation-which is to contemplate Being.”
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It is not certain, however, that he is motivated exclusively by his concern with actuality. That is why a poet chooses internal or external exile. And, alas, a temptation to pronounce it, similar to an acute itching, becomes an obsession which doesn’t allow one to think of anything else. In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot. “Only if we assume that a poet constantly strives to liberate himself from borrowed styles in search for reality, is he dangerous. “What is this enigmatic impulse that does not allow one to settle down in the achieved, the finished? I think it is a quest for reality.” At the same time, though, he feels that those old means of expression are not adequate to his own experience.” “Every poet depends upon generations who wrote in his native tongue he inherits styles and forms elaborated by those who lived before him. I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.” “I swear, there is in me no wizardry of word. Happy birthday, Czesław Miłosz! Here are some quotes from the writer:
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