rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this.
Paul CelanPoetry is perhaps this: an Atemwende, a turning of our breath. Who knows, perhaps poetry goes its wayโthe way of artโfor the sake of just such a turn? And since the strange, the abyss and Medusaโs head, the abyss and the automaton, all seem to lie in the same directionโis it perhaps this turn, this Atemwende, which can sort out the strange from the strange? It is perhaps here, in this one brief moment, that Medusaโs head shrivels and the automaton runs down? Perhaps, along with the I, estranged and freed here, in this manner, some other thing is also set free?
Paul Celan