A Different Firmament...

But when they were crossing the silent market-place on which nobody was to be seen except the sentry on duty at military headquarters, when the empty place surrounded by the dark houses, in which scarcely a light was burning, lay before them like a crater of isolation, like a crater of silence out of which recurring waves of peace flowed over the sleeping town, then Heinrich Wendling took his wife’s arm, and at that first physical contact she closed her eyes. Perhaps he too had closed his eyes and saw neither the deep summer night nor the white ribbon of the road that stretched in front of them as they walked in its dust, perhaps each of them saw a different firmament…

~ Hermann Broch, The Sleepwalkers

Like a Network of Tinkling Glass....

Even the silence that surrounded him was like an end in itself, it might have endured as it was for ever; no one spoke a word, the room, filled with the silence, strangely emptied by the silence, seemed to extend beyond its own walls, and the yellow sunlight outside the open door flowed past like an eternal immeasurable river on whose banks they were sitting.

-

…it was in a sense an incorporeal serenity, a kind of etherealized, luminous, almost white serenity that expanded in the dark room and spread over the confusion of voices, like a network of tinkling glass in a strangely abstract simplification. The stream of sunlight shimmered outside like a sharp fiery sword; they were safe as in a haven of refuge, in a cave, a cellar, a catacomb.

-

The major may have joined in the singing, but he did not know it, the singing seemed rather to be inside him, a singing behind his closed eyes, like a crystalline drop that falls singing from a cloud.

...

~ Hermann Broch, The Realist, in The Sleepwalkers

For Now the Morning Nears....

Within your cells awaken
You children of old years;
Your couches be forsaken,
For now the morning nears.

Your threads of life I'm weaving
Into one mighty whole.
The feuding years are leaving;
Your lives shall be one soul.

Each will in all be dwelling
And all in each one too;One heart in you be swelling,
One breath the whole imbue.

For Herbert

...

Text from Fable's song in Novalis' Henry von Ofterdingen

The Bed that Envelops Him....

Snow is falling, and through the streets, bareheaded, crazy Tiennette is running like a crazy woman. She plays all alone, catches the white flies as they fall in her violet hands, sticks out her tongue to dissolve the light candy she can just taste, and, with the tip of her finger, draws sticks and rings on the bright sheet.

Then the shoes that made her as tall as the roof thatch and dizzied her so come loose. She topples and stays on the ground a long while, making a cross, being good, until her portrait sinks in.

Then she makes herself a snowchild.

His limbs are twisted and shrunken from the cold. His eyes have been gouged out, his nose has one hole to take the place of two, his mouth has no teeth, and his skull has no hair, because hair and teeth are too hard.

“The poor thing!” says Tiennette.

She clasps him to her heart and whistles a lullaby, then, once he starts to melt, she changes him quickly and gives him a maternal roll in the fresh snow so the bed that envelops him will be clean.

...

~ Jules Renard (1864-1910), from "Crazy Tiennette" in The Dark Lantern.

Between Confusedly Tender Skeins...

... gleamings of slowed hands

Meditations have words that are soundless;
How I love to seek them in the silence!
It is necessary only that,
Night should forget itself more fully,
Night should forget itself faster
Among its sparse street lights,
Round the corner
Like a forsaken house...
Should forget itself among the quiet dining
Rooms above you, in the lilac-colored…
That from the tablecloth the trembling
Circle should not let down its yellow
Overflows, and gleamings of slowed hands
Should separate gray threads there,
And that you with anguish should separate
These threads one after the other, should
Separate and afterwards roll them up,
And with lilac openness the needle
Should go after the shining thread…
And then, unconcernedly bright,
With the quiet squeaking of straw
Hinges, carefully pinning the sheets,
There you too, Virtue, should fall sleep
Between confusedly tender skeins

...

~ Text: "The Work Basket" by the Russian poet, Innokenty Annensky (1856-1909)

~ Image from Docks of New York, Joseph von Sternberg, 1928

Celestial....

Passage of the Moon, France, 1870, from Brought to Light

A barely perceptible annunciation....

"For things are what they are, earth and sky, cloud, furrows, undergrowth, stars; it is things alone which transfigure themselves, in no way are they symbols; they are the world we breathe..."

...

Text from Philippe Jaccottet's Landscapes with Absent Figures, Editions Gallimard, 1979

Committed the Stars to the Moss's Protection...

There is no sky these nights

in early July, just an emptiness,

a pale absence

over the woods and bogs and

the haze-blue fields [...]

But it has committed the stars

to the moss's protection,

the moss in the woods

the mildest and softest on earth.

I walk among star images,

walk like a little Lord

through galaxies

of shining whiteness.

...

~ Images: Solar prominences and sunspots from Professor Todd's New Astronomy, circa 1897. Color images by Etienne Leopold Trouvelot.

~ Text: Starflowers from We Own the Forest and Other Poems: Hans Borli

Sound as a Golden Ornament in Space....

They gathered round it as round a fountain and for a few moments forgot everything else: it was as though this slender golden thread of sound, rising and falling, were winding itself round them and linking them in that unity on which the comfort of their living and dying was established; it was as though this thread which wavered up and filled their being, and yet curved and wound back again to its source, suspended their speech, perhaps because it was a thin, golden ornament in space, perhaps because it brought to their minds for a few moments that they belonged to each other...

...

~ Text: Hermann Broch

~ Image: Cymbelstern, 15th or 16th century

The Art of Enclosure...

Wienhausen, Cistercian convent, cloister walk with chests

Eberbach, Cistercian monastery, interior


Psalter and Hours of Bonne of Luxembourg
A life-size arme Christi, the side wound of Christ, or "the entrance to Christ's heart"



"Paradiesgartlein," Kloster Ebstorf
Silk flowers for an "enclosed garden"

Portable altar, German, ca. 1490, D.C., National gallery of Art

Garden of virtues, Somme le roi, London, British Library

Images ~ from The Visual and the Visionary: Art and Female Spirituality in Late Medieval Germany

As by the Delicate and Spiritualised Machinery...

Volume One, Swann's Way ~

Perhaps it is not-being that is the true state, and all our dream of life is inexistent; but, if so, we feel that these phrases of music, these conceptions which exist in relation to our dream, must be nothing either. We shall perish, but we have as hostages these divine captives who will follow and share our fate. 

Volume Two, Within a Budding Grove ~

One felt that she did not dress simply for the comfort or the adornment of her body; she was surrounded by her garments as by the delicate and spiritualised machinery of a whole civilization. 

Volume Three, The Guermantes Way ~

Similarly, in later years, in Venice, long after the sun had set, when it seemed to be quite dark, I have seen, thanks to the echo, itself imperceptible, of a last note of light held indefinitely on the surface of the canals as though by the effect of some optical pedal, the reflexions of the palaces displayed as though for all time in a darker velvet on the crepuscular greyness of the water. 

Volume Four, Sodom and Gomorrah ~

But where was she? With the sound of her voice were blended other sounds: a cyclist’s horn, a woman’s voice singing, a brass band in the distance, rang out as distinctly as the beloved voice, as though to show me that it was indeed Albertine in her actual surroundings who was beside me at that moment, like a clod of earth together with which we have carried away all the grass that was growing from it.

Volume Five, The Captive, The Fugitive ~

Stretched out at full length on my bed, in an attitude so natural that no art could have devised it, she reminded me of a long blossoming stem that had been laid there; and so in a sense she was: the faculty of dreaming, which I possessed only in her absence, I recovered at such moments in her presence, as though by falling asleep she had become a plant. In this way, her sleep realized to a certain extent the possibility of love: alone, I could think of her, but I missed her, I did not possess her; when she was present, I spoke to her, but was too absent from myself to be able to think of her; when she was asleep, I no longer had to talk, I knew that I was no longer observed by her, I no longer needed to live on the surface of myself. 

Volume Six, Time Regained ~

I felt, however, that these truths which the intellect educes directly from reality were not altogether to be despised, for they might be able to enshrine within a matter less pure indeed but still imbued with mind those impressions which are conveyed to us outside time by the essences that are common to the sensations of the past and of the present, but which, just because they are more precious, are also too rare for a work of art to be constructed exclusively from them. 

~Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time

...

As Such a Sudden Gift...

The romantic journey into such blue days - in such conditions, and as such a sudden gift - was, for him, to pass into the brightest sun of happiness, where sparkling light scatters and one seems entirely covered with shining glints.

...

~ The Awkward Age, Jean Paul, 18o4

Netted So Much Light....

There are evenings in spring when the twilight lasts far longer than the astronomically prescribed period. Then a thin smoky mist sinks over the city and gives it the subdued suspense of evenings preceding a holiday. And at the same time it is as if this subdued, pale grey mist had netted so much light that brighter strands remain in it even when it has become quite black and velvety.

...

~ Text: Hermann Broch, The Sleepwalkers

~ Image: E. Paton, 1919

They Went Slowly....

They went slowly, walking through a landscape expectant in its stillness, and yet which had nothing to expect save the rain and the evening. The sky hung softly over it, sometimes united indissolubly to the earth by a veil of rain, and for them too, wandering through the stillness, there seemed to be nothing left but expectation, and it was as though all the life in them had flowed to their fingers […] Shoulder leaning against shoulder, from the distance resembling the two sides of a triangle, they walked upon the river-path in silence, for neither knew what it was that drew them together.

~ Hermann Broch, The Sleepwalkers

Glimpsed in Dark Dreams...

“As in the case of archery, there can be no question but that these arts are ceremonies. More clearly than the teacher could express it in words, they tell the pupil that the right frame of mind for the artist is only reached when the preparing and the creating, the technical and the artistic, the material and the spiritual, the project and the object, flow together without break.”

“The completed picture looks just as if the Master had guessed what Nature had glimpsed in dark dreams…”

...

Text: Eugen Herrigel’s The Art of Archery

A Whisper That Dies and Begins Again...

"A mist-like rain spread a blue, tremulous dusk over the garden. The black boughs of the larch, the drooping leafy veil of the birch, the rounded crowns of the beech stood like shadows breathed on a background of gliding mist, while the clipped yew-trees shot upward like the black columns of a roofless temple."

"The stillness was that of a deep grave, save for the raindrops, falling light as thistledown, with a faint, monotonous sound like a whisper that dies and begins again and dies there behind the wet, glistening trunks."

...

~ Text: Jens Peter Jacobsen, Marie Grubbe, 1876

~ Images: Harold Sohlberg, A Flowery Meadow in the North, 1905; Prince Eugen, The Forest, 1892

Like a Sudden Invitation...

“If flowers were merely beautiful to the eye, they would still hold their charm; but at times their scent draws us back – like a happy condition of existence, like a sudden invitation – to a deeper sense of life. Whether I’ve sought out these invisible emanations or, more especially, whether they have suddenly happened of their own accord, I accept them as an intense but precarious expression of a spirit whose secret is hidden by the veil of the material world.”

~ Etienne Pivert De Senancour, Obermann, 1833

Filaments of Desire...

“In a sky reflected downward on a lake, the clouds whirl around like summer spirits, and as you row across this sky of water your oar dips quietly towards evening like a dark wooden spoon into the cloud-milk. You feel giddy in a silent and private feeling of detachment, simultaneously lost and at home in the light playing tricks among the reflections, and you continue rowing both in water and in baffling sky. The boat casts a shadow in a heaven of water and the keel’s wake wrinkles the glass mountain. Far away you see a ripple of forest wind stir the reflections of sunlit leaves. The mirrored greenery buckles in the boat’s waves. On the shore a woman in a yellow blouse is also reflected, her liquid image is pulled out into filaments of desire fluttering like tongues of fire in the purity of water.”

...

Text: Harry Martinson, Views from a Tuft of Grass

A Happiness in Itself...

"He remembered the joy which the sight of the big night-bird always caused to the heart of Childerique. 'I count that a great stroke of luck, a great happiness, to see an owl,' she had said to him. He had asked her if she believed that the birds were omens of happiness. 'I do not know,' she said, 'I think it is a great happiness, in itself, to see them.'"

...

~ Text: Isak Dinesen's "The Caryatids" in Last Tales

Of Secret Thoughts and of Heaven...

“If, in planting a coffee tree, you bend the taproot, that tree will start, after a little time, to put out a multitude of small delicate roots near the surface. That tree will never thrive, nor bear fruit, but it will flower more richly than the others … Those fine roots are the dreams of the trees. As it puts them out, it need no longer think of its bent taproot. It keeps alive by them – a little, not very long … If you want to go to sleep at night, Lincoln, you must not think, as people tell you, of a long row of sheep or camels passing through a gate, for they go in one direction, and your thoughts will go along with them. You should think instead of a deep well. In the bottom of that well, just in the middle of it, there comes up a spring of water, which runs out in little streamlets to all possible sides, like the rays of a star. If you can make your thoughts run out with that water, not in one direction, but equally to all sides, you will fall asleep.”

...

~ Text and title: From "The Dreamers" Seven Gothic Tales by Isak Dinesen

~ Image: Frank Borzage, The Pilgrim, 1916

Accumulator and Conductor....

“To find a kinship between image, sound and silence. To give them an air of being glad to be together, of having chosen their place. Milton: Silence was pleased.”

“Slow films in which everyone is galloping and gesticulating; swift films in which people hardly stir.”

“Image. Reflection and reflector, accumulator and conductor.”

“Silence, musical by an effect of resonance. The last syllable of the last word, or the last noise, like a held note.”

“To translate the invisible wind by the water it sculpts in passing.”

“Your film’s beauty will not be in the images but in the ineffable that they will disengage.”

“Your camera catches not only physical movements that are inapprehensible by pencil, brush or pen, but also certain states of soul recognizable by indices which it alone can reveal.”

“You illumine him and he illumines you. The light you receive from him is added to the light he receives from you.”

...

~ Text: From Robert Bresson's Notes on the Cinematographer

And the Milky Way Enveloped a Tiny Ship...

The Great Orion Nebula, 1874-1875 by Etienne Leopold Trouvelot, pastel

Part of the Milky Way Visible in Winter: Observed in 1874-1875 by Etienne Leopold Trouvelot, pastel

Crowded with Shadows...

George H. Seeley, Winter Landscape, 1909

“It was no wonder to them now that they had not been able to tell what it was, for this surface was everywhere crowded with shadows. The mass was chiefly made up of shadows of leaves innumerable, of all lovely and imaginative forms, waving to and fro, floating and quivering in one breath of a breeze whose motion was unfelt, whose sound was unheard […] As they walked they waded knee-deep in the lovely lake. For the shadows were not merely lying on the surface of the ground, but heaped up above it like substantial forms of darkness, as if they had been cast upon a thousand different planes of the air.”

~ George MacDonald, The Golden Key

So Blossoms from Star to Star...

La Recherche Expedition, 1838-1840

The northern lights bring silence.

The northern lights lower the eyelids.
The northern lights waft in you and surge over you,
For a world sinks gloriously down to you...

~ Text from Däubler’s book on the Northern Lights, Das Nordlicht

A Handkerchief of Seaweed...

"Elfride never went out on horseback but she brought home something - something found, or something bought. If she trotted to town or village, her burden was books. If to hills, woods, or the seashore, it was wonderful mosses, abnormal twigs, a handkerchief of wet shells or seaweed."

...

~ Text: Thomas Hardy, A Pair of Blue Eyes, 1873

~ Images: Swedish Botanical, 1920s

Gathered Into Invisible Arms...

The Moon: Sculpture by James Nasmyth

The Sun: Studies of the Solar Spectrum by Jules Janssen

“The three people, the captain, a gentleman, and a young girl, climb into the basket, the anchoring cords are loosed, and the strange house flies, slowly, as if it had first to ponder something, upward […] Everything has an almost brownish clarity. The beautiful moonlit night seems to gather the splendid balloon into invisible arms, gently and quietly the roundish flying body ascends, and now, hardly so that one might notice, subtle winds propel it northward […] How beautiful it is, the round, pale, dark depth below. The moonlight, tender and evocative, picks the rivers out, silver […] The forests seem to be chanting somber and ancient songs, but this chanting strikes one as being more like a noble silent knowledge […] The loneliness of remote regions has a special tone, such that one believes one ought to understand and even see this special thing that slips away from thought […] One peers down into regions where one’s feet would never, never have trod, because in certain regions, indeed in most, one has no purpose whatever. How big and unknown to us the earth is, thinks the feather-hatted gentleman. Yes, your own country does finally become intelligible from up here, looking down […] and onward one flies, onward, and finally the glorious sun appears, and, attracted by this proud star, the balloon soars upward into a magical dizzy height.”

...

~ Text: Robert Walser, Balloon Journey

Little One, In Whispers...

If it’s a ray, if it’s light,
that’s only because
the whisper and chatter of lovers
strengthen and warm it.

And I want to tell you
that I’m whispering,
I’m giving you the ray,
little one, in whispers.

...

~ Text: from Selected Poems of Osip Mandelshtam translated by Clarence Brown

~ Image: Vittore Carpaccio

A Life Remembered...

It is of that world at the same time past and desired, mysteriously mingled with the world of my life, mysteriously suggested by it, that I wish to speak... Nevertheless, I do not think that it is the sole mystery of one will, one divinity, but rather of a life remembered with my past life, of a landscape which the actual landscape makes me desire. I shan't find, like Gide, words on the actual landscape which suggest the mystery, instead I'll describe the other mysterious landscape.

...

~ Text: Alain-Fournier on his writing, from the introduction to The Wanderer

~ Image: Hercules Seghers, The Two Trees, 17th Century

At the Back of the North Wind...

"He took my hand and led me down the stair again, and through a narrow passage, and through another, and another, and another. I don't know how there could be room for so many passages in such a little house. The heart of it must be ever so much farther from the sides than they are from each other. How could it have an inside that was so independent of its outside..."

...

Text From the story "Nanny's Dream" in At the Back of the North Wind, Blackie & Son, London, 1886, by George MacDonald.

Imperceptible...

“It is the inaudible and the imperceptible that slowly... does not fill the space, but discovers it, unveils it. And this provokes an unexpected being in the sound... signals of the very rich acoustic life within and without us... in order to be able to discover, to be able to be amazed at the unknown, at the almost impossible to perceive...”

- Luigi Nono

Like a Small Vibration in Long Wires...

"They were floating, almost at one with the darkness, reflecting no light. Their footsteps could not be heard. But their breathing could, and perhaps the heart. They mingled with other almost inaudible nocturnal stirrings, like a small vibration in long wires."

...

Text: Tarjei Vesaas, The Ice Palace

Image: Hercules Seghers, Mountain Gorge with an Impression of the Rigging of a Ship

A Music of Murmurs...

“There is an instrument that can hardly be heard; it is played in Africa for oneself alone, inside the hut, or outside without bothering or attracting anyone. Rudimentary, archaic, apparently put together haphazardly, freely, by the village blacksmith, the sanzas (that is its name): no two the same, no good even for a slightly elaborated melody, it is independent of any scale, anarchical! A music of murmurs, the opposite of music for competitions, compositions. Instrument to relieve us dreamily from all the noisemakers of the world.”

~ Henri Michaux, In the Changing Waters of Resonance, 1975

The Word Brambles, You Say

V

I go out.
I dream that I am going out into the snowy night.
I dream that I am carrying
With me, far, outside, there is no turning back,
The mirror from the upstairs bedroom, the mirror from
Summers past, the boat at whose prow
We, simple, pushed forward...

VI

But here I am now
Standing outside the house; everything is motionless
Since it is only a dream. And so I go on, leaving,
It hardly matters where, against a wall, beneath the stars,
This mirror, our life. And may night’s dew
Condense and flow, over the images…

...

~ Text and title: “The Top of the World,” Yves Bonnefoy, included in John Naughton’s translation of Bonnefoy’s In the Shadow’s Light, University of Chicago Press, 1991.

~ Image: Antonio Victor, Untitled photogram, 1918

A Canopy of Heaven, Full of Whispers...

“On that night the sky laid bare its internal construction in many sections which, like anatomical exhibits, showed the spirals and whorls of light, the pale-green solids of darkness, the plasma of space, the tissue of dreams...”

“From all the crevices in the floor, from all the moldings, from every recess, there grew slim shoots filling the gray air with a scintillating filigree lace of leaves: a hot-house jungle, full of whispers and flicking lights – a false and blissful spring. Around the bed, under the lamp, along the wardrobes, grew clumps of delicate trees which, high above, spread their luminous crowns and fountains of lacy leaves, spraying chlorophyll, and thrusting up to the painted heaven of the ceiling.”

...

~ Text: The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schulz, translated by Celina Wieniewska

~ Image: Charles Burchfield, Orion in December, 1959

It Robbed Them of Words...

“it robbed them of words, this silence, almost of thoughts as well, and she remained sitting there as before, with her gaze toward the darkness of the foyer, and he remained standing there, leaning over her, staring down at the plaid of her silk lap, and unconsciously, seduced by the gentle silence, he began to rock her in the chair, very gently, very gently…”

“It was like the strange vegetation of the lake bottom, seen through milky ice. Break up the ice or pull what is dimly alive out into the light of words, and the same thing happens – what can now be seen and grasped is, in its clarity, no longer the gentle obscurity that it was.”

...

~ Text: Jens Peter Jacobsen, Marie Grubbe

~ Image: Josef Sudek, from Josek Sudek, Anna Farova, 1999

A Sea Bell's Angelus...

Also pray for those who were in ships, and
Ended their voyage on the sand, in the sea's lips
Or in the dark throat which will not reject them
Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell's
Perpetual angelus.

-

And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.

...

~ Text: T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

~ Image: Lighthouses and Lightships, W. H. Davenport Adams, London, 1870

Delicate Snow-veins...

"In summer as the sun and temperate winds melt the snow on the steep gradients, the horns soar up, as the mountain people say, black into the sky, their surface marked only by exquisite little flecks and snow-veins. These veins, however, are not really white but the delicate milky blue of the distant snow on the darker blue rocks."

"Now they surmounted monstrous debris; now found themselves again on the icefield. Today in the bright sun, they were able for the first time to see what it was like. In size it was stupendous, and beyond towered yet more sombre rocks; wave after wave heaved up, as it were, and the snow-covered ice, compressed and buckling, seemed to be pushing down upon the children and threatening to flow over their very bodies..."

~ Aldabert Stifter's Rock Crystal

Beneath the Ice, Spring Flowers...

from Snow Crystals by W.A. Bentley and W.J. Hunphreys, Dover Pres

"Recently I dreamed I flew over a round, fragile sheet of ice, as thin and transparent as a windowpane, and curving up and down like glassy waves. Beneath the ice, spring flowers were growing. As if raised up by a spirit, I floated back and forth and was pleased by the effortless motion. In the middle of the lake was a temple which turned out to be a tavern. I went in, ordered coffee and cakes, and ate and drank and afterward smoked a cigarette. When I left and resumed my exercise, the mirror broke and I sank into the depths, among the flowers, which admitted me with a friendly welcome. How nice it is that spring follows winter every time."

...

~ Images: William Bentley, Snowflakes

~ Text: "Winter" in Robert Walser: Selected Stories

Everything Was a Silence and a Waiting...

“ On this thin, scarcely real, and yet so perceptible sensation the whole room hung as on a faintly trembling axis, and this in its turn rested on the two people in the room. The objects all around held their breath, the light on the walls froze into golden lace…everything was a silence and a waiting and was there because of them. Time, which runs through the world like an endless tinsel thread, seemed to pass through the centre of this room and through the centre of these people and suddenly to pause and petrify, stiff and still and glittering…and the objects in the room drew a little closer together. It was that standstill and then that faint settling which occurs when planes all at once assume order and crystal forms: a crystal, forming here round these two people, the centre of it corresponding to their centre – two people gazing at each other through this holding of the breath and this ensphering, this converging upon them, of everything, and gazing at each other as through thousands of mirroring planes, seeing each other as for the first time…”

...

~ Text: Robert Musil, The Perfecting of a Love, Nonpareil Books, Boston, 1986

~ Image: Hilma af Klint, Series SUW, Group 4, No. 14, Swan, 1915

Aquis submersus...

My old wounds seared me; and, strangely enough, I became aware of something I had never heard before: the surf breaking on the shore of the sea far away. There was no human being to meet me, and I did not hear the cry of a single bird; but out of the dull roaring of the sea, the water sang the words to me over and over, the words of the dark lullaby: Aquis submersus, aquis submersus.

...

~ Text: The Rider on the White Horse, Theodor Storm, 1888 ~ Image: Point Reyes Lighthouse by Eadweard Muybridge, 1870

Now a Folding Takes Place...

now a folding takes place

that takes your breath away

heartswells become the altarpiece of your hands

they hover

toward you, my quiet one,

my true one

...

~ Images by Gisèle Celan-Lestrange from Correspondance Paul Celan, Gisèle Celan-Lestrange : (1951-1970), Paris : Éditions du Seuil, 2001

~ Text fragments by Paul Celan