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Danh ngôn của Wislawa Szymborska (Sứ mệnh: 3)

After every war someone has to tidy up.
All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination.
Any knowledge that doesn't lead to new questions quickly dies out: it fails to maintain the temperature required for sustaining life.
I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry. At that point, life itself takes over again.
I have sympathy for young people, for their growing pains, but I balk when these growing pains are pushed into the foreground, when you make these young people the only vehicles of life's wisdom.
Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there's no such thing. Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.
Poetic talent doesn't operate in a vacuum. There is a spirit of Polish poetry.
In the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, 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.