I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKALoveless 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.
More Wislawa Szymborska Quotes
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Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still.
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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 prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
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Somewhere out there the world must have an end.
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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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I’m one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.
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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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No one feels good at four in the morning. If ants feel good at four in the morning —three cheers for the ants.
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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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Memory at last has what I sought.
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And whatever I do will become forever what I’ve done.
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I started earning a living as a poet rather early on.
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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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All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.
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After every war someone has to tidy up.
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Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
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Whatever inspiration is, it’s born from a continuous “I don’t know.
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I cannot imagine any writer who would not fight for his peace and quiet.
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Poetic talent doesn’t operate in a vacuum. There is a spirit of Polish poetry.
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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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Though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group of Fortune’s darlings.
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Any knowledge that doesn’t lead to new questions quickly dies out: it fails to maintain the temperature required for sustaining life.
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All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.
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Secret codes resound. Doubts and intentions come to light.
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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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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