A little stallion gallops across the leafing fingers-Black the gate leaps open, I sing; How did we live here?
French-Romanian poet and translator (1920–1970)
He turned the language of his mother's murderers into verse so dense and broken it rewrote what German poetry could mean after the camps.
Born Paul Antschel in Romania on 23 November 1920, he survived the Holocaust while his parents did not. After the war he took the pen name Celan—an anagram of Ancel, the Romanian spelling of his surname—and moved to France in 1949, becoming a French citizen in 1955. His poetry, written in German, broke radically with convention: cryptic, linguistically innovative, shaped by what could barely be said. That difficulty made him one of the most important figures in German-language literature of the post-war era. He drowned in the Seine around 20 April 1970.
Sourced, dated quotes from Paul Celan
A little stallion gallops across the leafing fingers-Black the gate leaps open, I sing; How did we live here?
Aspen tree, your leaves glance white into the dark.
We stand by the window embracing, and people look up from the street:it is time they knew! It is time the stone made an effort to flower,time unrest had a beating heart.
You opened your eyes -I saw my darkness live. I see through it down to the bed; there too it is mine and lives.
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