Along with all the other deaths the beginning of February, my favorite living poet.
Szymborska wasn’t very impressed by reality. Why should she be? But rather than running off into the fantastic, she adhered to the familiar.
It's impossible to quote her: she didn't write phrases or lines, but composed essays in which the poetry resided in the unexpected detour.
Sane clear-sightedness, unbewitched by stupidly imprecise words like despair, weariness, loss.
[Morandi, Metaphysical still life, 1919]
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