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

He speaks truly who speaks the shade.

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.

you're rowing by wordlight

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

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?

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.