Wislawa Szymborska

I read the obituary of Wislawa Szymborska in “The Economist” the other day. (Yes. I subscribe to “The Economist.” Don’t ask.) She died on February 1^st, aged 88. I hadn’t heard of this Nobel prize-winning poet, but here she was, after death, speaking my language of the beauty of brevity. She wrote and said the kinds of things that would fit neatly on a postcard.

Her favorite phrase, the article reported, was “I don’t know.” When she received her Nobel, she told the audience, “It’s small, but it flies on mighty wings. It expands our lives to include the spaces within us as well as those outer expanses in which our tiny Earth hangs suspended.” Without the “I don’t know,” she said Marie Sklodowska-Curie would have “wound up teaching chemistry at some private high school for young ladies from good families.”

Postcard-worthy words, in my estimation. Note to self: admit you don’t know more often. Three words instead of endless paragraphs that only prove you know not.

Here’s one more taste of Wislawa:

I believe in the refusal to take part.

I believe in the ruined career.

I believe in the wasted years of work.

I believe in the secret taken to the grave.