A Quote by Czeslaw Milosz

Poetry is news brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo. — © Czeslaw Milosz
Poetry is news brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo.
I know that meeting a black woman with a love for hockey is a bit like stumbling upon a unicorn in the woods... or a unicorn anywhere. I'm sure it'd be just as surreal finding a unicorn in downtown Chicago. But here I am.
The landscape was snow and green ice on broken mountains. These weren't old mountains, worn down by time and weather and full of gentle ski slopes, but young, sulky, adolescent mountains. They held secret ravines and merciless crevices. One yodel out of place would attract, not the jolly echo of a lonely goatherd, but fifty tons of express-delivery snow.
Before practicing meditation, we see that mountains are mountains. When we start to practice, we see that mountains are no longer mountains. After practicing a while, we see that mountains are again mountains. Now the mountains are very free. Our mind is still with the mountains, but it is no longer bound to anything.
In some Mayan villages they even have a stage beyond the elder that they call the Echo Person. They say that when an Echo Person, whether a man or a woman, speaks, the words echo both in this world and in the other world. That's why they are called Echo People.
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief.
The only better thing than a unicorn, is a gay unicorn.
I'm confused about who the news belongs to. I always have it in my head that if your name's in the news, then the news should be paying you. Because it's your news and they're taking it and selling it as their product. ...If people didn't give the news their news, and if everybody kept their news to themselves, the news wouldn't have any news.
Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.
TV news is as bloody as Shakespeare but without the intelligence and the poetry. If you watch television news you know less about the world than if you drank gin out of a bottle
There was a windstorm in L.A., and the morning after there was no smog, and I could see the mountains. And I was like... 'There's mountains? Snowcap mountains?' That's insane; I've been there for thirteen years, and I've never seen that view before, seeing the mountains in the distance.
So this is what it's about? This is your mature response to go off into the mountains rather than talking about it and have s'mores with a gnome and a mountain man." "Yep" "What's your plan for tomorrow? Brunch with a unicorn?
The famous Zen parable about the master for whom, before his studies, mountains were only mountains, but during his studies mountains were no longer mountains, and afterward mountains were again mountains could be interpreted as an alleory about [the perpetual paradox that when one is closest to a destination one is also the farthest).
Are you sure this is a good idea?' whispered the unicorn. 'No,' said Rupert. 'But it's our best chance to find a dragon.' 'Frankly, that doesn't strike me as such a hot idea either,' muttered the unicorn.
Have you seen a unicorn in the woods?" "I imagine that's next," Jared muttered. "Right," said Holly. "Well. If the unicorn is pink, about two feet tall, with a sparkly mane, we'll know my imaginary friend is real too.
Poetry was syllable and rhythm. Poetry was the measurement of breath. Poetry was time make audible. Poetry evoked the present moment; poetry was the antidote to history. Poetry was language free from habit.
Writing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.
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