“They are the efforts of someone who, overarced by stars that are human handiwork, and who, shelterless in this till now undreamt… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
“To stand in the shadow of the scar up in the air. To stand-for-no-one-and-nothing. Unrecognized, for you alone. With all there is… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
“Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
With wine and being lost, with less and less of both: I rode through the snow, do you read me I rode… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
“Speak you too, speak as the last, say out your say. Speak- But don’t split off No from Yes. Give your say… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
There's nothing in the world for which a poet will give up writing, not even he is a Jew and the language… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
German poetry is going in a very different direction from French poetry… Its language has become more sober, more factual. It distrusts… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
“The sea, tasted, drunk away, dreamed away. An hour soul-eclipsed. The next, an autumn light, offered up to a blind feeling which… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
Reachable, near and not lost, there remained in the midst of the losses this one thing: language. It, the language, remained, not… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
“Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends. From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk: then… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.' — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
“Your hair waves once more when I weep. With the blue of your eyes you lay the table of love: a bed between summer… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
Poetry is perhaps this: an Atemwende, a turning of our breath. Who knows, perhaps poetry goes its way—the way of art—for the sake of… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
