No one feels good at four in the morning. If ants feel good at four in the morning —three cheers for the ants.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKAEven a graphomaniac is an extremely complicated person.
More Wislawa Szymborska Quotes
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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.
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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!
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My choices are rejections, since there is no other way, but what I reject is more numerous, denser, more demanding than before. A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable losses.
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Memory at last has what I sought.
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Whether you want it or not, your genes have a political past, your skin a political tone. your eyes a political color. You walk with political steps on political ground.
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I like being near the top of a mountain. One can’t get lost here.
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We’re extremely fortunate not to know precisely the kind of world we live in. One would have to live a long, long time, unquestionably longer than the world itself.
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They say the first sentence in any speech is always the hardest. Well, that one’s behind me, anyway.
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Even a graphomaniac is an extremely complicated person.
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God was finally going to believe in a man both good and strong, but good and strong are still two different men.
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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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There’s simply too much fuss about myself.
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Generally speaking, life is so rich and full of variety; you have to remember all the time that there is a comical side to everything.
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All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.
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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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At the very beginning of my creative life I loved humanity. I wanted to do something good for mankind. Soon I understood that it isn’t possible to save mankind.
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Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven’t got even that much, however loveless and boring – this is one of the harshest human miseries.
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I’m drowning in papers.
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Nothing’s a gift, it’s all on loan.
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What does the world get from two people/who exist in a world of their own?
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I’m old-fashioned and think that reading books is the most glorious pastime that humankind has yet devised.
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I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry. At that point, life itself takes over again.
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I don’t know the role I’m playing. I only know it’s mine, non-convertible.
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After every war someone has to tidy up.
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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.
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Existentialists are monumentally and monotonously serious; they don’t like to joke.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA