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Image of the quote is loading... SaveSave Each arrow you shoot offcarries its own targetinto the decidedlysecrettangle - Quote by Paul Celan

Each arrow you shoot offcarries its own targetinto the decidedlysecrettangle

Paul Celan
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They are the efforts of someone who, overarced by stars that are human handiwork, and who, shelterless in this till now undreamt of sense and thus most uncannily in the open, goes with his very being into language, reality-wounded and reality-seeking.
Paul Celan
A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the –not always greatly hopeful-belief that somewhere and sometime it could wash up on land, on heartland perhaps. Poems in this sense too are under way: they are making toward something. Toward what? Toward something standing open, occupiable, perhaps toward an addressable Thou, toward an addressable reality.
Paul Celan
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.
Paul Celan
rush of pine scent (once upon a time),the unlicensed convictionthere ought to be another wayof sayingthis.
Paul Celan
How you die out in me:down to the lastworn-out knot of breathyou're there, with a splinter of life.
Paul Celan
Don't sign your namebetween worlds,surmountthe manifold of meanings,trust the tearstain,learn to live.
Paul Celan
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.
Paul Celan
With wine and being lost, withless and less of both:I rode through the snow, do you read meI rode God far--I rode Godnear, he sang,it wasour last ride overthe hurdled humans.They cowered whenthey heard usoverhead, theywrote, theylied our neighinginto one of theirimage-ridden languages.
Paul Celan
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