Writing Poetry After Auschwitz Is Barbaric.

It Is Barbaric To Write Poetry After Auschwitz.

Life Has Changed Into A Timeless Succession Of Shocks, Interspaced With Empty, Paralysed Intervals.

Truth Is Inseperable From The Illusory Belief That From The Figures Of The Unreal One Day, In Spite Of All, Real Deliverance Will Come.

The Man For Whom Time Stretches Out Painfully Is One Waiting In Vain, Disappointed At Not Finding Tomorrow Already Continuing Yesterday.

The Splinter In Your Eye Is The Best Magnifying-glass Available.