“Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still.”

Nothing’s a gift, it’s all on loan.

I am who I am. A coincidence no less unthinkable than any other.

The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand.

Life lasts but a few scratches of the claw in the sand.

Sometimes I write quickly, sometimes I spend several weeks on a single poem. I would really love for readers not to be able to guess which of the poems took so much work!

No one in my family has ever died of love. What happened, happened, but nothing myth-inspiring.

After every war someone has to tidy up.

I started earning a living as a poet rather early on.

All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.

Poetic talent doesn’t operate in a vacuum. There is a spirit of Polish poetry.

All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.

Keep up the good work, if only for a while, if only for the twinkling of a tiny galaxy.

This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.

It’s a well-known fact: in order to follow doctor’s orders, you have to be healthy as a horse.

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.

I don’t know the role I’m playing. I only know it’s mine, non-convertible.