Today the ways of death or halfdeath have an almost sure and easy stronghold on us. Here each goes his own way into the same darkness. And the ways of life where we walk together and that no man can build from and for himself alone are not yet built. Nor is it anywhere written that they must or will be built. We know only that the power of the mystery may be as strong or stronger, than the power of death.

Susan Taubes, Letter to Hugo Bergman, September 18, 1950

I confess to you, it is no pleasure to be here at all. The only spirit that I have found here to converse with is
the angel of apocalypse. (He-she sends his-her greetings to you).

Letter written to Gershom Scholem on November 8, 1950

And you my mad one, my mystical one — ? […] All the places are wrong for us because the time is wrong. I think of you in the dark night hours of illuminations. Ah I’m so exiled. The earth is without sex here and dead as a rug.

Letter written to Jacob Taubes, November 24

“After we have tasted death how shall we taste/any other thing?// A great shudder we felt at the instant of unveiling/Our faces peeled off, face to face with the faceless.”

Concluding verses from her poem “Post Apocalypse."