Schwerer werden. Leichter sein.
Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.
They’ve healed me to pieces.
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?
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.
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.
Death is a master from Germany.
Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.