you're rowing by wordlight

He speaks truly who speaks the shade.

Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself.

Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.

Poetry is a sort of homecoming.

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

Reachable, near and not lost, there remained in the midst of the losses this one thing: language. It, the language, remained, not lost, yes, in spite of everything. But it had to pass through its own answerlessness, pass through frightful muting, pass through the thousand darknesses of deathbringing speech. It passed through and gave back no words for that which happened; yet it passed through this happening. Passed through and could come to light again, “enriched” by all this.