What is this enigmatic impulse that does not allow one to settle down in the achieved, the finished? I think it is a quest for reality. - Czesław Miłosz

When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.

Love means to look at yourself/ The way one looks at distant things/ For you are only one thing among many/ And whoever sees that way heals his own heart,/ Without knowing it, from various ills./ A bird and a tree say to him: Friend./ Then he wants to use himself and things/ So that they stand in the glow of ripeness./ It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:/ Who serves best doesn't always understand.

If only the stars contained me.
If only everything kept happening in such a way
That the so-called world opposed the so-called flesh.