They've healed me to pieces.

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.

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

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.

They've healed me to pieces.

Tall poplars--human beings of this earth!

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