“She has learned not to be nervous in rooms in which people take note of each other, weigh up, write down, write off, avoid, eye up. She doesn't dream, she is simply at rest. Others seek peace of mind, Miranda… — Ingeborg Bachmann Copy Share Image
If we had the right words, if we had the language, we would need no weapons. — Ingeborg Bachmann Copy Share Image
I myself am a person who has never resigned myself, who is absolutely never resigned, who can’t imagine it at all. I simply observe,… — Ingeborg Bachmann Copy Share Image
“Nonetheless even in capitulation there is still hope, and this hope of human beings never ends, will never end.” — Ingeborg Bachmann Copy Share Image
“If I had not immersed myself in books, in stories and legends, in newspapers, in reports, if everything communicable had not grown up in me, I should have been a nonentity, a collection of uncomprehended events. (And that might have been a good thing, then I should have thought of something new.) That I can see, that I can hear,… — Ingeborg Bachmann Copy Share
“...all of this is such a long and dark and untellable story (untellable as all stories are). Meanwhile, one can only hold onto what… — Ingeborg Bachmann Copy Share Image
“...the simple task of getting dressed and undressed was a real strain, but nothing could compare with her addiction to deep sleep...” — Ingeborg Bachmann Copy Share Image
“Never was there so much magic over things as when you spoke, and never were words so powerful. You could make speech flare up, become muddled or mighty. You did everything with words and sentences, came to an understanding with them or transmuted them, gave things a new name; and objects which understand neither the straight nor the crooked words,… — Ingeborg Bachmann Copy Share
“Hello! It could only have been Andre, but she replaced the receiver instantly, reaching for the tiny, crumpled scrap of paper and tucking it under her pillow as she dozed off again, struck by another dream at the edge of sleep, and clutching her head and her heart because she didn't know where all the blood was coming from. Nonetheless… — Ingeborg Bachmann Copy Share
Silent night, holy night, when the bough flies from the tree and is hung everywhere, when from tables the crusts fly, when the gifts begin to tremble because lovelessness walks through the world, because it snarls at you, barks at you from the snow, and the silver ribbons rip and the tinsel rustles silvery, and the silver and gold, and… — Ingeborg Bachmann Copy Share
