All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.
Wislawa SzymborskaRead
But they know about us, they know, the four corners, and the chairs nearby us. Discerning shadows also know, and even the table keeps quiet.
Interpretation
This quote reflects the idea that our surroundings and the inanimate objects within them are aware of our presence and experiences.
Wislawa Szymborska's quote evokes a sense of consciousness in the environment around us, suggesting that even ordinary objects, like tables and chairs, possess an understanding of human existence. It highlights the relationship between people and their surroundings, emphasizing how we are not alone in our experiences; even the shadows and furniture seem to bear witness to our lives, reflecting the interconnectedness of all things.
In practice
In a discussion about mindfulness and being present in the moment.
All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.
I started earning a living as a poet rather early on.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I've reached the age of self-knowledge, so I don't know anything. People who claim that they know something are responsible for most of the fuss in the world.
Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.
I cannot imagine any writer who would not fight for his peace and quiet.
Sometimes I get the feeling that we're just a bunch of habits. The gestures we repeat over and over, they're just our need to be recognized. Without them, we'd be unidentifiable. We have to reinvent ourselves every minute.
In a state of poverty, illiteracy, people just remain exposed to all kinds of manipulation. That's what we have lived. It's easier to tell a poor person, 'You know what, you are poor, you're hungry because the other one has taken away your rights.'
I am good. I live good. I think good. I don't have to feel good to be good, I take my goodness wherever I go.
There's a notion I'd like to see buried: the ordinary person. Ridiculous. There is no ordinary person.
How could anybody confuse truth with beauty, I thought as I looked at him. Truth came with sunken eyes, bony or scarred, decayed. Its teeth were bad, its hair gray and unkempt. While beauty was empty as a gourd, vain as a parakeet. But it had power. It smelled of musk and oranges and made you close your eyes in a prayer.
The poetic notion of infinity is far greater than that which is sponsored by any creed.
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