Letter from Bachmann to Celan, Vienna, Christmas 1948. NOT SENT.
Dear, dear Paul!
Yesterday and today I thought a great deal about you – or about us, if you will. I am not writing to you because I want you to write again, but because it gives me pleasure and because I want to. I had also planned to meet you somewhere in Paris very soon, but then my stupid and vain sense of duty kept me here and I did not leave. What does this mean anyway – ‘somewhere in Paris’? I don’t know anything, but I do think it would have been lovely somehow!
Three months ago someone suddenly gave me your book of poems as a gift. I didn’t know it had come out. That was so… the ground was so light and buoyant beneath me, and my hand was trembling a little, just a very little bit.
[…] I still do not know what last spring meant. – You know me, I always want to know everything very precisely. – It was lovely – and so were the poems, and the poem we made together.
Today you are dear to me and so present. That is what I want to tell you at all costs – I often neglected to do so during that time.
I can come for a few days as soon as I have time. And would you want to see me? – One hour, or two.
Much, much love!
Yours
Ingeborg
