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

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.

I went with my very being toward language.

Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live.

Death is a master from Germany.

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.

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