Category: W. Szymborska

Wislawa Szymborska


Periodically one has a soul. Nobody has it all the time and forever. Day after day, year after year can pass without it. Sometimes only in rapture and in fears of childhood it dwells within longer. Sometimes only in the astonishment, that we have become old. It rarely assists us in strenuous pursuits, such as …

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The Joy of Writing

Why does this written doe bound through these written woods? For a drink of written water from a spring whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle? Why does she lift her head; does she hear something? Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth, she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips. Silence – …

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The Three Oddest Words

When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it. When I pronounce the word Nothing, I make something no non-being can hold. By Wislawa Szymborska Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh


I prefer movies. I prefer cats. I prefer the oaks along the Warta. I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky. I prefer myself liking people to myself loving mankind. I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case. I prefer the color green. I prefer not to maintain that reason is to blame for …

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Darwin. They say he read novels to relax, But only certain kinds: nothing that ended unhappily. If anything like that turned up, enraged, he flung the book into the fire. True or not, I’m ready to believe it. Scanning in his mind so many times and places, he’d had enough of dying species, the triumphs …

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