We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.'

in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air

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.

Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.

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 Philosophers Stone.

The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere.