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Poets for the Millennium
Paul Celan: Selections
The best introduction to the work of Paul Celan, this anthology offers a broad collection of his writing in unsurpassed English translations along with a wealth of commentaries by major writers and philosophers. The present selection is based on Celan's own 1968 selected poems, though enlarged to include both earlier and later poems, as well as two prose works, The Meridian, Celan's core statement on poetics, and the narrative Conversation in the Mountains. This volume also includes letters to Celan's wife, the artist Gisèle Celan-Lestrange; to his friend Erich Einhorn; and to René Char and Jean-Paul Sartre—all appearing here for the first time in English.
246 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2005
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About the author
Paul Celan
223 books496 followersPoet, translator, essayist, and lecturer, influenced by French Surrealism and Symbolism. Celan was born in Cernăuţi, at the time Romania, now Ukraine, he lived in France, and wrote in German. His parents were killed in the Holocaust; the author himself escaped death by working in a Nazi labor camp. "Death is a Master from Germany", Celan's most quoted words, translated into English in different ways, are from the poem 'Todesfuge' (Death Fugue). Celan's body was found in the Seine river in late April 1970, he had committed suicide.
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Displaying 1 - 28 of 28 reviews
June 24, 2022
TO GISELE CELAN-LESTRANGE
[Paris,] Monday [1. 7?.1952], ten a.m.
Maia, my love, I would like to be able to tell you how much I want all this to remain, to remain for us, to remain for us forever.
You see, coming toward you I have the impression of leaving a world, of hearing the doors slam behind me, door after door, for they are numerous, the doors of this world made of misunderstandings, of false clarities, of stammerings. Maybe there remain other doors for me, maybe I have not yet recrossed the whole expanse across which is spread out this network of signs which lead astray — but I am coming, do you hear me, I am coming closer, the rhythm — I feel it — is speeding up, the deceptive fires go out one after the other, the lying mouths close over their drool — no more words, no more noise, nothing now dodging my step —
I'll be there, next to you, in a moment, in a second that will inaugurate time
Paul
*
LETTER #2 TO GISELE CELAN-LESTRANGE
[Paris] This Monday [1.28.1952] — 5 p.m.
Maia, my loved one, here I am writing to you, as I had promised you — how could I not write to you — I write to you to tell you that you don't stop being present, close by, that you accompany me everywhere I go, that this world is you, you alone, and that because of that it is larger, that it has found, thanks to you, a new dimension, a new coordinate, the one I could no longer bring myself to grant it, that it is no longer that implacable solitude that forced me at each moment to sack what rose in front of me, to hound myself— for I wanted to be just and spare no one! —that everything changes, changes, changes under your gaze —
— Paul Celan, from "LETTER #1 TO GISELE CELAN-LESTRANGE," Paul Celan: Selections (University of California Press, 2005)
[Paris,] Monday [1. 7?.1952], ten a.m.
Maia, my love, I would like to be able to tell you how much I want all this to remain, to remain for us, to remain for us forever.
You see, coming toward you I have the impression of leaving a world, of hearing the doors slam behind me, door after door, for they are numerous, the doors of this world made of misunderstandings, of false clarities, of stammerings. Maybe there remain other doors for me, maybe I have not yet recrossed the whole expanse across which is spread out this network of signs which lead astray — but I am coming, do you hear me, I am coming closer, the rhythm — I feel it — is speeding up, the deceptive fires go out one after the other, the lying mouths close over their drool — no more words, no more noise, nothing now dodging my step —
I'll be there, next to you, in a moment, in a second that will inaugurate time
Paul
*
LETTER #2 TO GISELE CELAN-LESTRANGE
[Paris] This Monday [1.28.1952] — 5 p.m.
Maia, my loved one, here I am writing to you, as I had promised you — how could I not write to you — I write to you to tell you that you don't stop being present, close by, that you accompany me everywhere I go, that this world is you, you alone, and that because of that it is larger, that it has found, thanks to you, a new dimension, a new coordinate, the one I could no longer bring myself to grant it, that it is no longer that implacable solitude that forced me at each moment to sack what rose in front of me, to hound myself— for I wanted to be just and spare no one! —that everything changes, changes, changes under your gaze —
— Paul Celan, from "LETTER #1 TO GISELE CELAN-LESTRANGE," Paul Celan: Selections (University of California Press, 2005)
March 15, 2024
Фуга смерті
Переклад Василя Стуса
Чорне молозиво ранку, ми п’ємо тебе ввечері,
ополудні, вранці п’ємо, і ніччю п’ємо і в обід —п’ємо і п’ємо і п’ємо,
в повітрі ми риємо яму, в ній буде не тісно.
В домі живе чоловік, зі зміями грається, пише,
пише, коли над Німеччиною примеркає,
про золото кіс твоїх, Маргарито, він пише і з дому виходить;
зорі яріють, а він зграю скликає хортів,
євреїв скликає на посвист: рийте могилу в землі, —
і наказує: грайте, заграйте до танцю мерщій.
Чорне молозиво ранку, ми п’ємо тебе зночі,
ополудні, вранці п’ємо, п’ємо тебе ввечері —
п’ємо і п’ємо і п’ємо.
В домі живе чоловік, зі зміями грається, пише,
пише, коли над Німеччиною примеркає,
про золото кіс твоїх, Маргарито, і попіл твоїх Суламіфів;
в повітрі ми риємо яму, в ній буде не тісно,
глибше укопуйтесь в землю, наказує, хай ці копають,
а ті хай співають і грають — розмахує він пістолетом,
він з голубими очима — заступи глибше стромляйте,
наказує, ці хай копають, ті ж грають до танцю мерщій.
Чорне молозиво ранку, ми п’ємо тебе зночі,
ополудні, вранці п’ємо, п’ємо тебе ввечері,
п’ємо і п’ємо і п’ємо.
В домі живе чоловік, золото кіс твоїх, Маргарито,
попіл твоїх Суламіфів, зі зміями грає,
кричить: награвайте, від смерті солодша смерть — німецький музика
кричить: хай тихішають скрипки, небавом ви станете димом,
труна ваша буде у хмарах, вам буде не тісно в труні.
Чорне молозиво ранку, ми п’ємо тебе зночі,
ополудні знову п’ємо смерть, німецький музика,
п’ємо тебе ввечері, вранці, п’ємо і п’ємо і п’ємо;
смерть, німецький музика з голубими очима,
куля його свинцева поцілить тебе просто в лоб.
В домі живе чоловік, золото кіс Маргарити,
псів він на нас нацькував, у повітрі труну подарує,
він грає зі зміями, марить, смерть, німецький музика,
золото кіс Маргарити,
попіл твоїх Суламіфів.
Переклад Василя Стуса
Чорне молозиво ранку, ми п’ємо тебе ввечері,
ополудні, вранці п’ємо, і ніччю п’ємо і в обід —п’ємо і п’ємо і п’ємо,
в повітрі ми риємо яму, в ній буде не тісно.
В домі живе чоловік, зі зміями грається, пише,
пише, коли над Німеччиною примеркає,
про золото кіс твоїх, Маргарито, він пише і з дому виходить;
зорі яріють, а він зграю скликає хортів,
євреїв скликає на посвист: рийте могилу в землі, —
і наказує: грайте, заграйте до танцю мерщій.
Чорне молозиво ранку, ми п’ємо тебе зночі,
ополудні, вранці п’ємо, п’ємо тебе ввечері —
п’ємо і п’ємо і п’ємо.
В домі живе чоловік, зі зміями грається, пише,
пише, коли над Німеччиною примеркає,
про золото кіс твоїх, Маргарито, і попіл твоїх Суламіфів;
в повітрі ми риємо яму, в ній буде не тісно,
глибше укопуйтесь в землю, наказує, хай ці копають,
а ті хай співають і грають — розмахує він пістолетом,
він з голубими очима — заступи глибше стромляйте,
наказує, ці хай копають, ті ж грають до танцю мерщій.
Чорне молозиво ранку, ми п’ємо тебе зночі,
ополудні, вранці п’ємо, п’ємо тебе ввечері,
п’ємо і п’ємо і п’ємо.
В домі живе чоловік, золото кіс твоїх, Маргарито,
попіл твоїх Суламіфів, зі зміями грає,
кричить: награвайте, від смерті солодша смерть — німецький музика
кричить: хай тихішають скрипки, небавом ви станете димом,
труна ваша буде у хмарах, вам буде не тісно в труні.
Чорне молозиво ранку, ми п’ємо тебе зночі,
ополудні знову п’ємо смерть, німецький музика,
п’ємо тебе ввечері, вранці, п’ємо і п’ємо і п’ємо;
смерть, німецький музика з голубими очима,
куля його свинцева поцілить тебе просто в лоб.
В домі живе чоловік, золото кіс Маргарити,
псів він на нас нацькував, у повітрі труну подарує,
він грає зі зміями, марить, смерть, німецький музика,
золото кіс Маргарити,
попіл твоїх Суламіфів.
August 13, 2019
This was another beautiful journey with Paul Celan and I truly loved it.
It also had a collection of letters between him and his wife which really made me emotional and mostly left me at awe because they are simply so wondrous.
His speeches too were amazing and gave me a chance to look into him in depth and helped me a lot as I worked on my podcast episode about him.
And in all honesty, I am not surprised that he is my current favourite poet
It also had a collection of letters between him and his wife which really made me emotional and mostly left me at awe because they are simply so wondrous.
His speeches too were amazing and gave me a chance to look into him in depth and helped me a lot as I worked on my podcast episode about him.
And in all honesty, I am not surprised that he is my current favourite poet
March 9, 2017
Four stars for the poetry, but I found the prose material in the book meh.
June 29, 2016
Celan is hard to rate because a great deal of the time I have no idea what he's "saying". But his language is sharp, imagistic, individual--not the ordinary pablum or psychobabble of too much poetry. And some lines really zing. (Yes, I skipped much of the intro and the commentary, but who cares?)
November 18, 2009
This is going to seep in.
Read
August 29, 2019I don’t feel qualified to review this because I didn’t really ”get” the poems, so I’m not going to. But let’s just say I was looking forward to it being over. :)))
December 17, 2022
I love poetry that fills up the sum of me. As Celan says: the "still-here" poem, lonely and en route. Celan is impeccable, resembling an alluring fusion of the sensibilities of Rilke, Glück, and Dickinson.
Very very strong poems included at the beginning, and they were a delight to read out loud [I mean, c'mon, "moldgreen is the house of forgetting. / ...you fill the urns here and feed your heart" (42)]. "Tenebrae" gave me chills with its simultaneous plea to/challenging of God in light of the Holocaust: "To the trough we went, Lord. / It was blood, it was, / which you had spilt, Lord. / It glittered" (61). "Corona" moved me the most deeply (ignore the pandemic connection or perhaps don't because it adds an extra layer of meaning): "Autumn is eating a leaf from my hand: we are friends... / we love one another like poppies and memory, / we sleep like wine in a seashell" (44). Perhaps a perfect poem? "That unrest formed a heart. / It is time it is time. / It is time" (45)!!!
"Count the almonds, / count what was bitter and kept you awake, / count me in with them... / whatever you heard took a hold of you, / whatever was dead laid its hand on you too, / and threefold you moved through the evening. / Make me bitter. / Count me in with the almonds" (49).
I love pre-gaming a date by reading Paul Celan and crying (because of the beauty), cozily in bed.
Very very strong poems included at the beginning, and they were a delight to read out loud [I mean, c'mon, "moldgreen is the house of forgetting. / ...you fill the urns here and feed your heart" (42)]. "Tenebrae" gave me chills with its simultaneous plea to/challenging of God in light of the Holocaust: "To the trough we went, Lord. / It was blood, it was, / which you had spilt, Lord. / It glittered" (61). "Corona" moved me the most deeply (ignore the pandemic connection or perhaps don't because it adds an extra layer of meaning): "Autumn is eating a leaf from my hand: we are friends... / we love one another like poppies and memory, / we sleep like wine in a seashell" (44). Perhaps a perfect poem? "That unrest formed a heart. / It is time it is time. / It is time" (45)!!!
"Count the almonds, / count what was bitter and kept you awake, / count me in with them... / whatever you heard took a hold of you, / whatever was dead laid its hand on you too, / and threefold you moved through the evening. / Make me bitter. / Count me in with the almonds" (49).
I love pre-gaming a date by reading Paul Celan and crying (because of the beauty), cozily in bed.
Read
April 17, 2025from DEATH FUGUE
Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at night
we drink and drink
we scoop out a grave in the sky where it's roomy to lie
There's a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it's nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
he writes it and walks from the house and the stars all start flashing
he whistles his dogs to draw near
whistles his Jews to appear starts us scooping a grave out of sand
he commands us play up for the dance
🌀🌀🌀
IMAGINE
Imagine:
the moorsoldier from Masada
teaches himself homeland, in
the most inextinguishable way,
against
all barbs in the wire.
Imagine:
the eyeless without shape
lead you free through the throng, you
grow stronger and
stronger.
Imagine: your
own hand
has held once
more this
into life re-
suffered
piece of
inhabitable earth.
Imagine:
that came towards me,
awake to the name, awake to the hand,
forever,
from what cannot be buried.
Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at night
we drink and drink
we scoop out a grave in the sky where it's roomy to lie
There's a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it's nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
he writes it and walks from the house and the stars all start flashing
he whistles his dogs to draw near
whistles his Jews to appear starts us scooping a grave out of sand
he commands us play up for the dance
🌀🌀🌀
IMAGINE
Imagine:
the moorsoldier from Masada
teaches himself homeland, in
the most inextinguishable way,
against
all barbs in the wire.
Imagine:
the eyeless without shape
lead you free through the throng, you
grow stronger and
stronger.
Imagine: your
own hand
has held once
more this
into life re-
suffered
piece of
inhabitable earth.
Imagine:
that came towards me,
awake to the name, awake to the hand,
forever,
from what cannot be buried.
September 7, 2020
Not having read many poets of the post-war era, intrigued by the author's life and personal experience, I picked up this collection without any expectations.
There is a common theme connecting most of the works, alike in the case of many great thinkers of the time; one cannot but notice the strong presence of the absurd in both Celan's short essays and poems.
The author's relationship to language itself is particularly interesting. The idea that language as exercised by an individual cannot solely exist to sustain itself, but rather must form a relationship with a recipient, an experiencer, an interpreter, is something that stayed with me.
As put forward by Celan:
I find the connective which, like poems, leads to encounters.
I find something as immaterial as language, yet earthly, terrestrial, in the shape of a circle which, via both poles, rejoins itself and on the way serenely crosses even the tropics: I find ... a meridian.
There is a common theme connecting most of the works, alike in the case of many great thinkers of the time; one cannot but notice the strong presence of the absurd in both Celan's short essays and poems.
The author's relationship to language itself is particularly interesting. The idea that language as exercised by an individual cannot solely exist to sustain itself, but rather must form a relationship with a recipient, an experiencer, an interpreter, is something that stayed with me.
As put forward by Celan:
I find the connective which, like poems, leads to encounters.
I find something as immaterial as language, yet earthly, terrestrial, in the shape of a circle which, via both poles, rejoins itself and on the way serenely crosses even the tropics: I find ... a meridian.
April 6, 2025
Knowing nothing beforehand, I think this was a fairly good introduction to Celan's work. Pierre Joris (RIP) does a good job both introducing and translating some of the pieces in this selection. Unfortunately, I can't compare them to the original German, but the poems themselves were overwhelmingly breathtaking—or breath-turning.
I liked the context in which Paul Celan decided to make art with the language of the perpetrators of his most profound source of sadness and opression. His later poems are sober, grayer, full of silence and grief. I think, as far as poems can achieve some kind of truth, this is the real deal.
Noone
bears witness for the
witness.
THE WRITTEN hollows itself, the
spoken, seagreen,
burns in the bays,
in the liquified names
the dolphins dart,
in the eternalized Nowhere, here,
in the memory of the over-
loud bells in — where only?
who
pants
in this
shadow-quadrat, who
from beneath it
shimmers, shimmers, shimmers?
I liked the context in which Paul Celan decided to make art with the language of the perpetrators of his most profound source of sadness and opression. His later poems are sober, grayer, full of silence and grief. I think, as far as poems can achieve some kind of truth, this is the real deal.
Noone
bears witness for the
witness.
THE WRITTEN hollows itself, the
spoken, seagreen,
burns in the bays,
in the liquified names
the dolphins dart,
in the eternalized Nowhere, here,
in the memory of the over-
loud bells in — where only?
who
pants
in this
shadow-quadrat, who
from beneath it
shimmers, shimmers, shimmers?
April 19, 2021
Reading anything by Paul Celan just makes me so emotional and depressed and in awe, all the time, of what an innovative writer he is. Okay, I don't always understand what he's saying, but I do feel it. I also spend a lot of time thinking, "Oh my God, I am so, so sorry that this has happened" because how much the tragedies in his life—in all of ours—shows in the ways he uses language, even when he's not directly talking about those events, is so clear. Like one day you wake up after something terrible and the way you see the entire world and every day of your life, no matter how mundane, has been recolored, and you can't get it back.
November 18, 2019
Ensimmäinen kosketukseni Celanin runoihin oli Karl-Ove Knausgårdin Taisteluni -sarja, erityisesti viimeinen osa. Nyt vihdoin pääsin lukemaan runoja itse. Tykkäisin aina lukea käännettyjen runojen rinnalla alkukielisen version jos vain mitään siitä tajuan, ja tässä siitä olisi ollut hyötyä tai iloa. Näitä runoja ei voi "ymmärtää" siten kuin kieltä ymmärretään, mutta osiinsa, alkutekijöihinsä, silputtu kieli teki aivoille jotain odottamatonta - kokeile itse.
Tässä painoksessa myös muiden kirjoittamia esseitä ja Paul Celanin liikuttavaa kirjeenvaihtoa.
Tässä painoksessa myös muiden kirjoittamia esseitä ja Paul Celanin liikuttavaa kirjeenvaihtoa.
April 20, 2022
Poetry at the intersection of deconstruction and the Holocaust. The spare, brittle later poems are an obvious precedent for poetry like Gustaf Sobin's and they are beautiful. How does one say in as few words as possible something about null, about nothing, about oblivion? The myth of the man dominates the presentation here, especially in the appendix-like offerings on Paul Celan included in these selections.
Takeaway:
Takeaway:
There also comes a meaning
down the narrowest cut,
it is breached
by the deadliest of our
standing marks.
April 4, 2023
A master of the written word, so powerful to evoke the most incredible images while storing a lot of secrets about the meanings. And in meanings, one of his lines could have at least three posible translations. Built from the horrors of the Holocaust, envied and hated, a prophet outside his land. Celan was suggested to me by a friend, and now I just want to know more, to be enthralled more, to let myself be lost in meaning and words. And this book is the perfect door to enter in the magnificent castle of his poetry. A true modern master.
August 25, 2021
IMAGINE
Imagine:
the moorsoldier from Masada
teaches himself homeland, in
the most inextinguishable way,
against
all barbs in the wire.
Imagine:
the eyeless without shape
lead you free through the throng, you
grow stronger and
stronger.
Imagine: your
own hand
has held once
more this
into life re-
suffered
piece of
inhabitable earth.
Imagine:
that came toward me,
awake to the name, awake to the hand,
forever,
from what cannot be buried.
Imagine:
the moorsoldier from Masada
teaches himself homeland, in
the most inextinguishable way,
against
all barbs in the wire.
Imagine:
the eyeless without shape
lead you free through the throng, you
grow stronger and
stronger.
Imagine: your
own hand
has held once
more this
into life re-
suffered
piece of
inhabitable earth.
Imagine:
that came toward me,
awake to the name, awake to the hand,
forever,
from what cannot be buried.
February 18, 2022
Even in translation, Celan captures something about longing, loss, grief, and trauma that only he can put into words. The translators, Pierre Joris et al, also do a fantastic job of putting Celan’s use of the German language into juxtaposition with his poetics. This book gave me a new consideration of the term “mameloshn/mother tongue”
May 6, 2008
A great book. Pierre Joris' translations of Celan's late work are the primary way that I have come in contact with Celan, and it is through that contact that Celan has become such a large figure for me, one who directly affects how I write (even while I realize this is a mediated contact). The meat of this book is Joris' translations, so it is, of course, going to be a solid book for me.
What makes this book all the more exciting is to see translations from other capable voices. I'd most of all like to highlight Cid Corman's work. Here's a taste:
Corman, these days, is better known as publisher of the legendary Orgin magazine than as a poet. I know him through his wonderful translation of René Char, Leaves of Hypnos. Reading his rendering of Char and reading his rendering of Celan makes me want to finally pick up a book of Corman's and look at his poetry outside of translating others.
It's rare to find a poetry as intense as the poem selected above, and while the terror is certainly Celan's, it's no easy task to render it in another language. Corman's translations are one of those few places were I can see Olson's idea of the poem as energy-field. They never let up; they let the horrors Celan depicted be horrors.
What makes this book all the more exciting is to see translations from other capable voices. I'd most of all like to highlight Cid Corman's work. Here's a taste:
Pray, Lord,
Pray to us,
we are nigh.
Windskew we went on,
we went on, to bend ourselves
at hollow and hole.
To the trough we went, Lord.
It was blood, it was,
which you had spilt, Lord.
It glittered.
Corman, these days, is better known as publisher of the legendary Orgin magazine than as a poet. I know him through his wonderful translation of René Char, Leaves of Hypnos. Reading his rendering of Char and reading his rendering of Celan makes me want to finally pick up a book of Corman's and look at his poetry outside of translating others.
It's rare to find a poetry as intense as the poem selected above, and while the terror is certainly Celan's, it's no easy task to render it in another language. Corman's translations are one of those few places were I can see Olson's idea of the poem as energy-field. They never let up; they let the horrors Celan depicted be horrors.
March 16, 2011
I was lucky enough to take a class taught by Pierre Joris, which heavily featured Paul Celan, and not surprisingly, included this book. This collection is fairly easy to get into, not overwhelming, but with such a stirring amount of information and emotion and imagery invading the reader's mind. It reveals much about Paul Celan, both as man and writer. I highly recommend this both for poetry-fanatics and for those just wanting to try it out. It is a must as well for Celan lovers. Very readable. Very enjoyable.
March 21, 2013
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تكلم كآخر من يتكلم
قل قولك.
تكلم
بيد ألا تفصل لا عن نعم
أنِل كذٰلك كلمتك القصد:
أنِلهـا الظلال
أنِلها كفايتك من الظلال
أنِلها قدر
علمك بما وُزِّع مدارك بين
منتصف الليل و الظهيرة و ناصفة الليل.
تطلّع مدارَك:
انظر كيف يغدو مدارَك حياً
حيث الموتُ! حيّ!
يُفصحُ الحقيقة، من يفصح ظلالاً .
على أنَّ المكان، حيث تقف، ذا هو يتقلّص:
أين الآن، يا أيها المجرَّد من الظلال، إلى أين؟
طريقٌ صاعدٌ، تلمَّـس صُعُداً.
إنك ناحلٌ ، متضائلُ السِّمة، راهف!
جدّ رهيف : خيطٌ
به تريد أن تتدلى، النجمـة:
أن تسفل حتى تعوم في القعر، تحتاً
حيث ترى نفسها تلمع: في تلاطم
الكلمات الرُحَّـل .
* تسيلان
October 9, 2010
Good selection, good translations, good commentary...but gets knocked down a peg for lack of facing German text. Too bad Pierre Joris's translations of several whole books by Celan seem no longer to be available.
December 7, 2007
the nobody-translation, better than nobody
January 5, 2009
Tireless goodness.
April 29, 2012
Everyone goes on about how obscure Celan is, but he's not. It just takes time to really read him.
October 10, 2012
I need to reread this a multitude of times
May 23, 2014
This is a HARD book. But if you can press through the difficulty, it's got some beautiful poetry.
October 26, 2024
想起来永远都心痛的诗人之一。
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