Ingeborg Bachmann (25 June 1926 – 17 October 1973) was an Austrian poet and author.
If we had the right words, if we had the language, we would need no weapons.
I myself am a person who has never resigned myself, who is absolutely never resigned, who can’t imagine it at all. I simply observe, and I observe in so many people, and often very quickly, a resignation that terrifies me, that’s it.
Silent night, holy night, when the bough flies from the tree and is hung everywhere, when from tables the crusts fly, when the gifts begin to tremble because lovelessness walks through the world, because it snarls at you, barks at you from the snow, and the silver ribbons rip and the tinsel rustles silvery, and the silver and gold, and a golden word come to you on which you choke because you have been sold and betrayed, and because it does not suffice that for you one is redeemed who once died.
For the facts that make up the world need the non-factual as a vantage point from which to be perceived.
I don't take drugs, I take books.
With the aid of a minute correction - that of the dispersing lens - in a gold frame perched on her nose, Miranda can see into hell.
I am writing with my burnt hand about the nature of fire.
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