I went with my very being toward language.

The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosophers Stone.

I went with my very being toward language.

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

Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.

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

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.