Людибиографии, истории, факты, фотографии

Пауль Целан


Paul Celan

Фотография Пауль Целан (photo Paul Celan)

День рождения: 23.11.1920 года
Возраст: 49 лет
Место рождения: Черновцы, Румыния
Дата смерти: 20.04.1970 года
Место смерти: Париж, Россия

Quotes of Paul Celan

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  • ⋅Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅Poetry is a sort of homecoming. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅Reality is not simply there, it must be searched and won. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosopher's Stone. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅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. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅They've healed me to pieces. /Paul Celan
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  • ⋅Spring: trees flying up to their birds /Paul Celan
  • ⋅The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosophers Stone. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅We are told that when HГ¶lderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.' /Paul Celan
  • ⋅A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea with the-surely not always strong-hope that it may somehow wash up somewhere, perhaps on the shoreline of the heart. In this way, too, poems are en route: they are headed towards. Toward what? Toward something open, inhabitable, an approachable you, perhaps, an approachable reality. Such realities are, I think, at stake in a poem. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅With wine and being lost, with less and less of both: I rode through the snow, do you read me I rode God far--I rode God near, he sang, it was our last ride over the hurdled humans. They cowered when they heard us overhead, they wrote, they lied our neighing into one of their image-ridden languages. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle /Paul Celan
  • ⋅rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the 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
  • ⋅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? /Paul Celan
  • ⋅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. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅Tall poplars--human beings of this earth! /Paul Celan
  • ⋅The two
    heart-grey puddles:
    mouthsfull of silence. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅A nothing
    we were, are, shall
    remain, flowering:
    the nothing--, the
    no one's rose. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅Poetry is perhaps this: an Atemwende, a turning of our breath. Who knows, perhaps poetry goes its way—the way of art—for the sake of just such a turn? And since the strange, the abyss and Medusa’s head, the abyss and the automaton, all seem to lie in the same direction—is 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 Medusa’s head shrivels and the automaton runs down? Perhaps, along with the I, estranged and freed here /Paul Celan
  • ⋅The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won. /Paul Celan
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  • ⋅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
  • ⋅Poetry is a sort of homecoming. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅There was earth inside them, and they dug. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅How you die out in me: down to the last worn-out knot of breath you're there, with a splinter of life. /Paul Celan
  • ⋅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. /Paul Celan
Goss Malone
Omalone1 16.07.2019 07:48:16
Women think that all men are equal, and this is their strength, men think all women are different - it destroys them.

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