Wislawa Szymborska Quote
We call it a grain of sand,but it calls itself neither grain nor sand.It does just fine, without a name,whether general, particular,permanent, passing,incorrect, or apt.Our glance, our touch means nothing to it.It doesn’t feel itself seen and touched.And that it fell on the windowsillis only our experience, not its.For it, it is not different from falling on anything elsewith no assurance that it has finished fallingor that it is falling still.The window has a wonderful view of a lake,but the view doesn’t view itself.It exists in this worldcolorless, shapeless,soundless, odorless, and painless.The lake’s floor exists floorlessly,and its shore exists shorelessly.The water feels itself neither wet nor dryand its waves to themselves are neither singular nor plural.They splash deaf to their own noiseon pebbles neither large nor small.And all this beheath a sky by nature skylessin which the sun sets without setting at alland hides without hiding behind an unminding cloud.The wind ruffles it, its only reason beingthat it blows.A second passes.A second second.A third.But they’re three seconds only for us.Time has passed like courier with urgent news.But that’s just our simile.The character is inverted, his hasts is make believe,his news inhuman.
We call it a grain of sand,but it calls itself neither grain nor sand.It does just fine, without a name,whether general, particular,permanent, passing,incorrect, or apt.Our glance, our touch means nothing to it.It doesn’t feel itself seen and touched.And that it fell on the windowsillis only our experience, not its.For it, it is not different from falling on anything elsewith no assurance that it has finished fallingor that it is falling still.The window has a wonderful view of a lake,but the view doesn’t view itself.It exists in this worldcolorless, shapeless,soundless, odorless, and painless.The lake’s floor exists floorlessly,and its shore exists shorelessly.The water feels itself neither wet nor dryand its waves to themselves are neither singular nor plural.They splash deaf to their own noiseon pebbles neither large nor small.And all this beheath a sky by nature skylessin which the sun sets without setting at alland hides without hiding behind an unminding cloud.The wind ruffles it, its only reason beingthat it blows.A second passes.A second second.A third.But they’re three seconds only for us.Time has passed like courier with urgent news.But that’s just our simile.The character is inverted, his hasts is make believe,his news inhuman.