That Letter Never Reached Me
by Priscilla Atkins
disordered lines from a correspondence, Ingeborg Bachmann & Paul Celan (also, Max Frisch & PC; Gisèle Celan-Lestrange & IB) I am becoming more and more afraid of letters because they look upon us so rigidly. Your place is with Paul ~ better~ sure of you than of me. All I ask, if ~ give him a little parcel for his birthday. That letter never reached me, dear Max Frisch. Dear Max Frisch, I often ask myself why so much silence. I would like to come to you. I must ask you to come to Paris. We have––you, Ingeborg and I––been provoked, Max Frisch. I am no Robespierre, Max Frisch! There are many lies around us, Max Frisch. And at the same time I ask you to maintain the utmost discretion. I am writing to Ingeborg at the same time––with the same intention. These lines are meant warmly––please do not take them any other way. (aborted draft) I warmly request a chance to talk things over. (not sent) Dear Paul Celan! My letter to you has preoccupied me for days; to it I have devoted entire mornings and entire evenings. You give me credit for not being an anti-semite. Do you understand what I mean if I say that this does not give me much leeway? Dear Paul Celan! This is the fourth attempt to write a letter. I live with a wound that was certainly not inflected by Hitler, but with a wound too.
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