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“There was only one hope she didn't and wouldn't allow herself to hold on to: that if, in almost thirty years, she hadn't found a man, not a single one, who was exclusively significant for her, who had become inevitable to her, someone who was strong and brought her the mystery she had been waiting for, not a single one who was really a man and not an eccentric, a weakling or one of the needy the world was full of - then the man simply didn't exist, and as long as this New Man did not exist, one could only be friendly and kind to one another, for a while. There was nothing more to make of it, and it would be best if women and men kept their distance and had nothing to do with each other until both had found their way out of the tangle and confusion, the discrepancy inherent in all relationships.”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Simultan. Erzählungen

“She wondered all the same how much they really had to say to one another, given that they had only this city in common and a similar way of talking, the same intonation, perhaps she'd just wanted to believe after that third whiskey on the roof garden at the Hilton that he would give her back something she'd lost, a missing taste, an intonation gone flat, that ghostly feeling of home, though she was no longer at home anywhere.”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Simultan. Erzählungen

“Elisabeth had not had her future and her parents had not had theirs, there was nothing to this so-called future which was always promised to the young.”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Simultan. Erzählungen

“...the simple task of getting dressed and undressed was a real strain, but nothing could compare with her addiction to deep sleep...”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Simultan. Erzählungen

“But Beatrix knew very well that there were no jobs, not even the most pitiful office routine - she wasn't even qualified for that - and that no one would allow her to sleep until late in the afternoon because these ill-advised people all around her let themselves be squeezed into schedules; that she would never work, least of all learn a trade, because she had no ambition whatsoever to earn a single shilling, become self-supporting and spend eight hours a day with people who smelled bad.”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Simultan. Erzählungen

“Miranda doesn't dream, she simply rests. When Miranda's eyes are at ease, her mind is at peace.”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Simultan. Erzählungen

“The woman was finally done, and Beatrix reached for a magazine. There were always German magazines lying around here, Vogue was extremely rare; who wanted to read German magazines, anyway? Twin Murders in Stuttgart. Certainly an awful place, it even sounded like murder. Sex in Germany. That was probably even worse.”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Simultan. Erzählungen

“Quién me pregunta a mí, quién pregunta alguna vez a personas que piensan por sí mismas y se atreven a vivir, y en qué me habéis convertido, a mí y a tantas otras con esta absurda actitud comprensiva ante cualquier problema, acaso no se le ha ocurrido a nadie que también se asesina a las personas cuando se les priva de la palabra y con ello de la posibilidad de vivir y pensar.”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Tres senderos hacia el lago

“I've found out that I don't belong anywhere anymore, I don't long to be anywhere, but I used to think I had a heart and I belonged in Austria. But one day it all comes to an end, you lose both heart and soul, and now there is something bleeding to death inside of me but I don't know what it is.”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Simultan. Erzählungen

“Hello! It could only have been Andre, but she replaced the receiver instantly, reaching for the tiny, crumpled scrap of paper and tucking it under her pillow as she dozed off again, struck by another dream at the edge of sleep, and clutching her head and her heart because she didn't know where all the blood was coming from. Nonetheless she kept repeating: It's nothing, it's nothing, nothing else can happen to me now. Something might happen to me, but nothing has to happen.”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Simultan. Erzählungen

“With the aid of a minute correction - that of the dispersing lens - in a gold frame perched on her nose, Miranda can see into hell.”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Simultan. Erzählungen