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

Wislawa Szymborska

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Hands Joy Mortal Perseverance Power Revenge Writing

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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.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Creature Myself Simplicity Son
Is a decision made in advance really any kind of choice?
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Choice Decision Kind Perspective
All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Easy Imperfection Service Small Tolerance
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Chaos Hell Myself Order Preference
I am who I am. A coincidence no less unthinkable than any other.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Myself Personality Thinking
Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Arrival Consequence Fact Practice
It’s a well-known fact: in order to follow doctor’s orders, you have to be healthy as a horse.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Doctor Fact Follow Health Order Yourself
When it comes, you’ll be dreaming that you don’t need to breathe; that breathless silence is the music of the dark and it’s part of the rhythm to vanish like a spark.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Breathe Darkness Dreams Music Need Rhythm Spark
Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Beautiful Certain Confidence Life Time
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Absurd Myself Poem Preference Writing
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.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Angel Count Head Myself Sleep
This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Charm Morning Terrify Worth
I cannot imagine any writer who would not fight for his peace and quiet.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Fight Himself Imagination Myself Peace Quiet
Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Action Demand Myself Poor Preparation Reality
Secret codes resound. Doubts and intentions come to light.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Code Light Secret
Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Common Poet Publish Reading Understand

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