Bachmann was born in Klagenfurt, in the Austrian state of Carinthia, the daughter of a headmaster. She studied philosophy, psychology, German philology, and law at the universities of Innsbruck, Graz, and Vienna. In 1949, she received her Doctor of Philosophy from the University of Vienna with her dissertation titled "The Critical Reception of the Existential Philosophy of Martin Heidegger," her thesis adviser was Victor Kraft.
After graduating, Bachmann worked as a scriptwriter and editor at the Allied radio station Rot-Weiss-Rot, a job that enabled her to obtain an overview of contemporary literature and also supplied her with a decent income, making possible proper ... more »
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Ingeborg Bachmann Poems
In The Storm Of Roses
Wherever we turn in the storm of roses, the night is lit up by thorns, and the thunder
Now the journey is ending, the wind is losing heart. Into your hands it's falling, a rickety house of cards.
Verwunschnes Wolkenschloß, in dem wir treiben... Wer weiß, ob wir nicht schon durch viele Himmel so ziehen mit verglasten Augen? Wir, in die Zeit verbannt
I Step Outside Myself
I step outside myself, out of my eyes, hands, mouth, outside
War is no longer declared, only continued. The monstrous has become everyday. The hero
Im Winter ist meine Geliebte unter den Tieren des Waldes. Daß ich vor Morgen zurückmuß,
I Know No Better World
Who knows of a better world should step forward. Alone, no longer out of bravery, not wiping away this saliva, this saliva worn upon the cheek
To The Sun
More beatiful than the remarkable moon and her noble light, More beautiful than the stars, the famous medals of the night,
A Kind Of Loss
Used together: seasons, books, a piece of music. The keys, teacups, bread basket, sheet and a bed. A hope chest of words, of gestures, brought back, used, used up. A household order maintained. Said. Done. And always a head was there.
Harder days are coming. The loan of borrowed time will be due on the horizon. Soon you must lace up your boots
Be silent with me, as all bells are silent! In the afterbirth of terror the rabble grovels for new nourishment. On Good Friday a hand hangs on display
But where are we going carefree be carefree when it grows dark and when it grows cold be carefree
The Young That Died In Beauty
If souls should only sheen so bright In heaven as in e'thly light, An' nothen better wer the cease, How comely still, in sheape an' feace
The Girt Woak Tree
The girt woak tree that's in the dell ! There's noo tree I do love so well; Vor times an' times when I wer young I there've a-climb'd, an' there've a-zwung
Comments about Ingeborg Bachmann
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In The Storm Of Roses
Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
the night is lit up by thorns, and the thunder
of leaves, once so quiet within the bushes,
rumbling at our heels.