Wis艂awa Szymborska (Polish pronunciation: [v什is藞wava 蕚扫m藞b蓴rska], born July 2, 1923 in K贸rnik, Poland) is a Polish poet, essayist, and translator. She was awarded the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature. In Poland, her books reach sales rivaling prominent prose authors鈥攁lthough she once remarked in a poem entitled "Some like poetry" [Niekt贸rzy lubi膮 poezj臋] that no more than two out of a thousand people care for the art.
Szymborska frequently employs literary devices such as irony, paradox, contradiction, and understatement, to illuminate philosophical themes and obsessions. Szymborska's compact poems often conjure large existential puzzles, touching on issues of ethical import, and reflecting on the condition of people both as individuals and as members of human society. Szymborska's style is succinct and marked by introspection and wit.
Szymborska's reputation rests on a relatively small body of work: she has not published more than 250 poems to date. She is often described as modest to the point of shyness[citation needed]. She has long been cherished by Polish literary contemporaries (including Czes艂aw Mi艂osz) and her poetry has been set to music by Zbigniew Preisner. Szymborska became better known internationally after she was awarded the 1996 Nobel Prize. Szymborska's work has been translated into many European languages, as well as into Arabic, Hebrew, Japanese and Chinese.
In 1931, Szymborska's family moved to Krak贸w. She has been linked with this city, where she studied, worked.
When World War II broke out in 1939, she continued her education in underground lessons. From 1943, she worked as a railroad employee and managed to avoid being deported to Germany as a forced labourer. It was during this time that her career as an artist began with illustrations for an English-language textbook. She also began writing stories and occasional poems.
Beginning in 1945, Szymborska took up studies of Polish language and literature before switching to sociology at the Jagiellonian University in Krak贸w. There she soon became involved in the local writing scene, and met and was influenced by Czes艂aw Mi艂osz. In March 1945, she published her first poem Szukam s艂owa ("I seek the word") in the daily paper Dziennik Polski; her poems continued to be published in various newspapers and periodicals for a number of years. In 1948 she quit her studies without a degree, due to her poor financial circumstances; the same year, she married poet Adam W艂odek, whom she divorced in 1954. At that time, she was working as a secretary for an educational biweekly magazine as well as an illustrator.
During Stalinism in Poland in 1953 she participated in the defamation of Catholic priests from Krak贸w who were groundlessly condemned by the ruling Communists to death.[1] Her first book was to be published in 1949, but did not pass censorship as it "did not meet socialist requirements." Like many other intellectuals in post-war Poland, however, Szymborska remained loyal to the PRL official ideology early in her career, signing political petitions and praising Stalin, Lenin and the realities of socialism. This attitude is seen in her debut collection Dlatego 偶yjemy ("That is what we are living for"), containing the poems Lenin and M艂odzie偶y buduj膮cej Now膮 Hut臋 ("For the Youth that Builds Nowa Huta"), about the construction of a Stalinist industrial town near Krak贸w. She also became a member of the ruling Polish United Workers' Party.
Like many Polish intellectuals initially close to the official party line, Szymborska gradually grew estranged from socialist ideology and renounced her earlier political work. Although she did not officially leave the party until 1966, she began to establish contacts with dissidents. As early as 1957, she befriended Jerzy Giedroyc, the editor of the influential Paris-based emigr茅 journal Kultura, to which she also contributed. In 1964 s
Maria Wis艂awa Anna Szymborska (2 July 1923 鈥� 1 February 2012) was a Polish poet, essayist, translator and recipient of the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature. Born in Prowent, which has since become part of K贸rnik, she later resided in Krak贸w until the end of her life. The poems are filled with a deep acceptance and submission to life.
Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.
Even if there is no one dumber, if you're the planet's biggest dunce, you can't repeat the class in summer: this course is only offered once.
No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses.
One day, perhaps some idle tongue mentions your name by accident: I feel as if a rose were flung into the room, all hue and scent.
The next day, though you're here with me, I can't help looking at the clock: A rose? A rose? What could that be? Is it a flower or a rock?
Why do we treat the fleeting day with so much needless fear and sorrow? It's in its nature not to stay: Today is always gone tomorrow.
With smiles and kisses, we prefer to seek accord beneath our star, although we're different (we concur) just as two drops of water are.
To be fair i have read some passages of the book before two months felt bored and closed it.Before some days i was searching for more information on Szymborska,and i found that Kieslowski was inspired by her "love at first sight" and made his red.I was spell bounded as i am great fan of Kieslowski's three colors,Decalogue.So started again to read her poems.As i started to read this collections thank god i could understand kieslowski images in far more depth.The poems are filled with a deep acceptance and submission to life.
Here nothing is certain,even certain also uncertain,every place is an abyss.These Collections of poems arises out of a deep acceptance and rest.
if joy, then with a touch of fear; "if despair, then not without some quiet hope. Life, however long, will always be short. Too short for anything to be added."
They're both convinced that a sudden passion joined them. Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still
Since they'd never met before, they're sure that there'd been nothing between them. But what's the word from the streets, staircases, hallways 鈥� perhaps they've passed by each other a million times?
I want to ask them if they don't remember 鈥� a moment face to face in some revolving door? perhaps a "sorry" muttered in a crowd? a curt "wrong number" caught in the receiver? 鈥� but I know the answer. No, they don't remember
They'd be amazed to hear that Chance has been toying with them now for years
Not quite ready yet to become their Destiny, it pushed them close, drove them apart, it barred their path, stifling a laugh, and then leaped aside.
There were signs and signals, even if they couldn't read them yet. Perhaps three years ago or just last Tuesday a certain leaf fluttered from one shoulder to another? Something was dropped and then picked up. Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished into childhood's thicket? There were doorknobs and doorbells where one touch had covered another beforehand. Suitcases checked and standing side by side. One night, perhaps, the same dream grown hazy by morning.
Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.
......................... Die 鈥� you can't do that to a cat. Since what can a cat do in an empty apartment? Climb the walls? Rub up against the furniture? Nothing seems different here, but nothing is the same. Nothing has been moved, but there's more space. And at nighttime no lamps are lit
............................ It has come to this: I'm sitting under a tree beside a river on a sunny morning. It's an insignificant event and won't go down in history. It's not battles and pacts, where motives are scrutinized, or noteworthy tyrannicides. And yet I'm sitting by this river, that's a fact. And since I'm here I must have come from somewhere, and before that I must have turned up in many other places, exactly like the conquerors of nations before setting sail. Even a passing moment has its fertile past, its Friday before Saturday, its May before June. Its horizons are no less real than those that a marshal's field glasses might scan This tree is a poplar that's been rooted here for years. The river is the Raba; it didn't spring up yesterday. The path leading through the bushes wasn't beaten last week. The wind had to blow the clouds here before it could blow them away.
And though nothing much is going on nearby, the world is no poorer in details for that. It's just as grounded, just as definite as when migrating races held it captive. Conspiracies aren't the only things shrouded in silence. Retinues of reasons don't trail coronations alone. Anniversaries of revolutions may roll around, but so do oval pebbles encircling the bay The tapestry of circumstance is intricate and dense. Ants stitching in the grass. The grass sewn into the ground. The pattern of a wave being needled by a twig So it happens that I am and look. Above me a white butterfly is fluttering through the air on wings that are its alone, and a shadow skims through my hands that is none other than itself, no one else's but its own When I see such things, I'm no longer sure that what's important is more important than what's not.
"Nothing Twice/Nic dwa Razy" is the book that any Anglophone or person with a strong command of English should read to become acquainted with Wis艂awa Szymborska, the winner of the 1996 Nobel Prize for literature. It contains all the poems found in "A Grain of Sand" and another dozen or so more. More importantly for the Polish emigrant family anxious to introduce its children to Polish literature, it contains all the Polish originals on the opposing pages. Szymborska was the poet-laureate of central European Stalinism. She wrote not as a naive Westerner possessed of romantic ideas about what life was like behind the Iron Curtain but as an insider who liked what she saw. Her mission was to convince her fellow Poles that communism was a project intended to create a just society. It was never intended to turn our lives into fairy tales. Szymborska's poems are sunny and cheerful . One must accept what one has without romantic notions. Her poems are remarkably clear by the standards of the 20th century not because she was simple-minded but because her intent was to educate Poles in Soviet citizenry. I regretfully concede that there at least 30 very good poems in this anthology. I particularly liked "Mi艂o艣膰 Szcz臋liwa / True Love" which mocks the notion of the perfect love and "O 艢mierci bez Przesdady / On Death without Exaggeration" which reminds that reader that while the grim reaper can put an end to your actions, he can never take away from you what you have accomplished before he arrives. I am not going to bother mentioning any others because I find it difficult to praise a writer of political stripe.
Dreams are featherweights, and memory can shake them off with ease. The real world doesn鈥檛 have to fear forgetfulness. It鈥檚 a tough customer. It sits on our shoulders, weights on our hearts, tumbles to our feet.
There鈥檚 no escaping it, it tags along each time we flee. And there鈥檚 no stop along our escape route where reality isn鈥檛 expecting us.