Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.— Paul Celan
The most relaxing Paul Celan quotes that are guaranted to improve your brain
Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.
The poem is lonely. It is lonely and en route. Its author stays with it. Does this very fact not place the poem already here, at its inception, in the encounter, in the mystery of encounter?
Poetry is a sort of homecoming.
Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live.
German poetry is going in a very different direction from French poetry.
... Its language has become more sober, more factual. It distrusts "beauty." It tries to be truthful.
With wine and being lost, with less and less of both: I rode through the snow, do you read me I rode God far--I rode God near, he sang, it was our last ride over the hurdled humans. They cowered when they heard us overhead, they wrote, they lied our neighing into one of their image-ridden languages.
The two heart-grey puddles: two mouthsfull of silence.
Illegibility of this world. All things twice over. The strong clocks justify the splitting hour, hoarsely. You , clamped into your deepest part, climb out of yourself for ever.
who is invisible enough to see you
How you die out in me: down to the last worn-out knot of breath you're there, with a splinter of life.
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown.
rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this.
They've healed me to pieces.
A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the –not always greatly hopeful-belief that somewhere and sometime it could wash up on land, on heartland perhaps. Poems in this sense too are under way: they are making toward something. Toward what? Toward something standing open, occupiable, perhaps toward an addressable Thou, toward an addressable reality.
Death is a master from Germany.
Tall poplars--human beings of this earth!
Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself.
The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere.
I went with my very being toward language.
We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.'
no one bears witness for the witness
With a changing key, you unlock the house where the snow of what’s silenced drifts. Just like the blood that bursts from Your eye or mouth or ear, so your key changes. Changing your key changes the word That may drift with flakes. Just like the wind that rebuffs you, Clenched round your word is the snow.
He speaks truly who speaks the shade.
in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air
There's nothing in the world for which a poet will give up writing, not even he is a Jew and the language of his poems is German.
The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosopher's Stone.
Spring: trees flying up to their birds
Reality is not simply there, it must be searched and won.
A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea with the-surely not always strong-hope that it may somehow wash up somewhere, perhaps on the shoreline of the heart. In this way, too, poems are en route: they are headed towards. Toward what? Toward something open, inhabitable, an approachable you, perhaps, an approachable reality. Such realities are, I think, at stake in a poem.
A nothing we were, are, shall remain, flowering: the nothing--, the no one's rose.
There was earth inside them, and they dug.
Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle
you're rowing by wordlight
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language.
Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.