Wisława Szymborska Quotes

God was finally going to believe in a man both good and strong, but good and strong are still two different men.

They’ll reenter their lives’ cages, where love’s tiger sometimes rages, but the beast’s too tame to bite. We’ll

I'm one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.

He managed to come into the world at what was still a fitting time. All that was to pass passed in this house. Not in housing projects, not in furnished but empty quarters, among unknown neighbors on fifteenth floors that student field trips rarely reach.

They aren't obliged to vanish when we're gone. They don't have to be seen while sailing on.

So he's got to have happiness, he's got to have truth, too, he's got to have eternity — did you ever!

We all use phrases such as ‘the ordinary world,’ ‘ordinary life,’ ‘the ordinary course of events.’ But in the language of poetry, 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.

Memory Finally Memory’s finally found what it was after. My mother has turned up, my father has been spotted. I dreamed up a table and two chairs. They sat. They were mine again, alive again for me. The two lamps of their faces gleamed at dusk as if for Rembrandt. Only now can I begin to tell in how many dreams they’ve wandered, in how many crowds I dragged them out from underneath the wheels, in how many deathbeds they moaned with me at their side. Cut off, they grew back, but never straight. The absurdity drove them to disguises. So what if they felt no pain outside me, they still ached within me. In my dreams, gawking crowds heard me call out Mom to a bouncing, chirping thing up on a branch. They made fun of my father’s hair in pigtails. I woke up ashamed. So, finally. One ordinary Friday night they suddenly came back exactly as I wanted. In a dream, but somehow freed from dreams, obeying just themselves and nothing else. In the picture’s background possibilities grew dim, accidents lacked the necessary shape. Only they shone, beautiful because just like themselves. They appeared to me for a long, long, happy time. I woke up. I opened my eyes. I touched the world, a chiseled picture frame.

There's nothing more debauched than thinking.

Estar en casa es tremendamente peligroso. A cada paso que damos hay peligro de muerte o mutilación. Incluso me atrevería a decir que cuantas más comodidades civilizadoras guardamos en casa, mayores son las posibilidades de que nos suceda una catástrofe. Vivir en una caverna era más seguro que todo eso, claro, siempre y cuando no irrumpiera en ella un tigre dientes de sable en ausencia de la gente que se encargaba de cazar.

We live longer
but less precisely
and in shorter sentences.

So poets keep on trying, and sooner or later the consecutive results of their self-dissatisfaction are clipped together with a giant paperclip by literary historians and called their “oeuvres.” I

Dying - you can't do that to a cat.

True love. Is it normal
is it serious, is it practical?
What does the world get from two people
who exist in a world of their own?

No other sense can make up for your missing sense of taking part. Even sight heightened to become all-seeing will do you no good without a sense of taking part. You shall not enter, you have only a sense of what the sense should be, only its seed, imagination.'''