"That day. The last. Paul Celan at my house. Sitting in this chair that I have right now been staring at for a long time.

Exchange of words, closeness. His voice? Soft, most of the time. And yet it is not his voice I hear today, but his silence. It is not him I see, but emptiness, perhaps because, on that day, each of us had unawares and cruelly revolved around himself."

— Edmond Jab├Ęs, "Memory of Paul Celan" in The Book of Margins, trans. Rosmarie Waldrop

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