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Wislawa Szymborska

Under a Certain Little Star My apologies to chance for calling it necessity. My apologies to necessity in case I’m mistaken. May happiness not be angry if I take it for my own. May the dead forgive me that their memory’s but a flicker. My apologies to time for the multiplicity of the world overlooked… Continue reading Wislawa Szymborska

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Wisława Szymborska

I apologize to everything that I cannot be everywhere. I apologize to everyone that I cannot be every man and woman. I know that as long as I live nothing can justify me, because I myself am an obstacle to myself. Take it not amiss, O speech, that I borrow weighty words, and later try… Continue reading Wisława Szymborska

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Wisława Szymborska

Dreams are featherweights, and memory can shake them off with ease. The real world doesn’t have to fear forgetfulness. It’s a tough customer. It sits on our shoulders, weights on our hearts, tumbles to our feet. There’s no escaping it, it tags along each time we flee. And there’s no stop along our escape route… Continue reading Wisława Szymborska

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Wislawa Szymborska

Poetry– but what sort of thing is poetry? More than one shaky answer has been given to this question. But I do not know and do not know and clutch on to it, as to a saving bannister. — Wislawa Szymborska, from “Some Like Poetry,” The New Yorker: October 21, 1996 Issue.

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