“Poems […] are as buoys in the sea. I swim to them, from one to the other. In between them, without them, I am lost. They are the stopping points where in the infinite expanse, something accumulates from the interstellar dust, a bit of matter in the abyss of antimatter. Sometimes the debris of the past compresses into new words and contexts. Some poems make us believe that there is a meaning which though itself cannot be described, will nonetheless show, indeed, that there might even be an end — an Eschaton. And that the Word becomes flesh simply because in snow, on white paper, it has already disappeared.”
— Anselm Kiefer (trans. mothwood) Frankfurt am Main, in der Paulskirche
19. Oktober 2008
(via mothwood)