They've Healed Me To Pieces.

There Was Earth Inside Them, And They Dug.

Death Is A Master From Germany.

Each Arrow You Shoot Off Carries Its Own Target Into The Decidedly Secret Tangle

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.

We Are Told That When Hölderlin Went 'mad,' He Constantly Repeated, 'nothing Is Happening To Me, Nothing Is Happening To Me.'