Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle

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

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

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

There was earth inside them, and they dug.

Tall poplars--human beings of this earth!

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.