Wislawa Szymborska Quotes
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Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still
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No one in my family has ever died of love. What happened, happened, but nothing myth-inspiring.
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Even a graphomaniac is an extremely complicated person.
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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.
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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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Even the worst book can give us something to think about.
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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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Is a decision made in advance really any kind of choice?
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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 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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Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous "I don't know".
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I am who I am. A coincidence no less unthinkable than any other.
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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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I usually write for the individual reader -though I would like to have many such readers. There are some poets who write for people assembled in big rooms, so they can live through something collectively. I prefer my reader to take my poem and have a one-on-one relationship with it.
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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'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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I slide my arm from under the sleeper's head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.
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I'm fighting against the bad poet who is prone to using too many words.