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“Algún día existirá la hembra y la mujer cuyo nombre ya no signifique sólo lo contrario de lo masculino, sino algo en sí mismo.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“Lo que se necesita no es más que esto: soledad, gran soledad interior. Adentrarse en sí mismo y no encontrarse con nadie durante horas: esto es lo que hay que poder alcanzar. Estar solo, como se estaba solo de niño, cuando los adultos andaban enredados con cosas que parecían importantes y grandes, porque los mayores parecían muy ocupados y porque uno no comprendía nada de lo que hacían.”
― Cartas a un joven poeta (Ilustrados)
― Cartas a un joven poeta (Ilustrados)
“Fig-tree, for such a long time I have found meaning
in the way you almost completely omit your blossoms
and urge your pure mystery, unproclaimed,
into the early ripening fruit.
Like a curved pipe of a fountain, your arching boughs drive the sap
downward and up again: and almost without awakening
it bursts out of sleep, into its sweetest achievement.
Like the god stepping into the swan.
......But we still linger, alas,
we, whose pride is in blossoming; we enter the overdue
interior of our final fruit and are already betrayed.
In only a few does the urge to action rise up
so powerfully the they stop, glowing in their heart's abundance,
while, like the soft night air , the temptation to blossom
touches their tender mouths, touches their eyelids, softly:
heroes perhaps, and those chosen to disappear early,
whose veins Death the gardener twists into a different pattern.
These plunge on ahead: in advance of their own smile
like the team of galloping horses before the triumphant
pharaoh in the mildly hollowed reliefs at Karnak.
The hero is strangely close to those who died young. Permanence
does not concern him. He lives in continual ascent,
moving on into the ever-changed constellation
of perpetual danger. Few could find him there. But
Fate, which is silent about us, suddenly grows inspired
and sings him into the storm of his onrushing world.
I hear no one like him. All at once I am pierced
by his darkened voice, carried on the streaming air.
Then how gladly I would hide from the longing to be once again
oh a boy once again, with my life before me, to sit
leaning on future arms and reading of Samson,
how from his mother first nothing, then everything, was born.
Wasn't he a hero inside you mother? didn't
his imperious choosing already begin there, in you?
Thousands seethed in your womb, wanting to be him,
but look: he grasped and excluded—, chose and prevailed.
And if he demolished pillars, it was when he burst
from the world of your body into the narrower world, where again
he chose and prevailed. O mothers of heroes, O sources
of ravaging floods! You ravines into which
virgins have plunged, lamenting,
from the highest rim of the heart, sacrifices to the son.
For whenever the hero stormed through the stations of love,
each heartbeat intended for him lifted him up, beyond it;
and, turning away, he stood there, at the end of all smiles,—transfigured.”
― The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke
in the way you almost completely omit your blossoms
and urge your pure mystery, unproclaimed,
into the early ripening fruit.
Like a curved pipe of a fountain, your arching boughs drive the sap
downward and up again: and almost without awakening
it bursts out of sleep, into its sweetest achievement.
Like the god stepping into the swan.
......But we still linger, alas,
we, whose pride is in blossoming; we enter the overdue
interior of our final fruit and are already betrayed.
In only a few does the urge to action rise up
so powerfully the they stop, glowing in their heart's abundance,
while, like the soft night air , the temptation to blossom
touches their tender mouths, touches their eyelids, softly:
heroes perhaps, and those chosen to disappear early,
whose veins Death the gardener twists into a different pattern.
These plunge on ahead: in advance of their own smile
like the team of galloping horses before the triumphant
pharaoh in the mildly hollowed reliefs at Karnak.
The hero is strangely close to those who died young. Permanence
does not concern him. He lives in continual ascent,
moving on into the ever-changed constellation
of perpetual danger. Few could find him there. But
Fate, which is silent about us, suddenly grows inspired
and sings him into the storm of his onrushing world.
I hear no one like him. All at once I am pierced
by his darkened voice, carried on the streaming air.
Then how gladly I would hide from the longing to be once again
oh a boy once again, with my life before me, to sit
leaning on future arms and reading of Samson,
how from his mother first nothing, then everything, was born.
Wasn't he a hero inside you mother? didn't
his imperious choosing already begin there, in you?
Thousands seethed in your womb, wanting to be him,
but look: he grasped and excluded—, chose and prevailed.
And if he demolished pillars, it was when he burst
from the world of your body into the narrower world, where again
he chose and prevailed. O mothers of heroes, O sources
of ravaging floods! You ravines into which
virgins have plunged, lamenting,
from the highest rim of the heart, sacrifices to the son.
For whenever the hero stormed through the stations of love,
each heartbeat intended for him lifted him up, beyond it;
and, turning away, he stood there, at the end of all smiles,—transfigured.”
― The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke
“But it is in this that young people go so often and so badly astray. It is in their nature to have no patience, so they throw themselves together when love comes over them, and spend themselves just as they are in all their disorder, confusion and perplexity. What is to happen then? What is life to do with the heaps of half-battered life, which they call their fusion, and which, if possible, they would gladly call their happiness and their future? Each one loses himself for the other’s sake and loses the other, too, and many others who wanted to come afterwards. And each loses the immensity of his possibilities, and exchanges the coming and going of delicate things full of portent for a fruitless perplexity, of which nothing more can come; nothing but a little nausea, disappointment, poverty and flight into one of the many conventions which have been set up in great numbers like public shelters on this most dangerous of paths. No sphere of human experience is so well provided with conventions as this. Life-belts of the most different devices are there, boats and air-bladders. The conception of society has been able to create all kinds of refuges, for, as it was inclined to take the life of love as a pleasure, it had to make it easy, cheap, secure and safe, as public pleasures always are.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“Through loss, through great, immoderate loss, we are actually quite introduced into the Whole. Death is only an unsparing way of placing us on intimate and trusting terms with that side of our existence that is turned away from us.”
― Letters on Life: New Prose Translations
― Letters on Life: New Prose Translations
“You are so young, you have not even begun, and I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything that is unsolved in your heart and to try to cherish the questions themselves, like closed rooms and like books written in a very strange tongue. Do not search now for the answers which cannot be given you because you could not live them. It is a matter of living everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, one distant day live right into the answer.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“I would have been glad to get this book (as i would anything that gives a sign of you)”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“And those who come together in the night-time and are entwined in a cradle of desire are carrying out a serious work in collecting sweetness, profundity and strength for the song of some poet yet to come, who will rise up to speak unutterable pleasures.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“Ame usted su soledad, y soporte el dolor que le causa quejándose de manera armoniosa.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“solo quien está dispuesto a todo, quien no excluye ninguna experiencia, incluso la más incomprensible, vivirá la relación con otra persona como algo vivo y él mismo sondeará las profundidades de su propio ser.”
― Cartas a un Joven Poeta
― Cartas a un Joven Poeta
“Ah, ne kadar güzel bir top bu;
kırmızı ve yuvarlak, bir hertaraf gibi,
iyi olmuş yarattığınız böylesini.
Ne dersiniz, çağrıldığında gelir mi?”
― Poemes
kırmızı ve yuvarlak, bir hertaraf gibi,
iyi olmuş yarattığınız böylesini.
Ne dersiniz, çağrıldığında gelir mi?”
― Poemes
“Finally, after weeks of daily resistance, one finds oneself somewhat composed
again, even though still a bit confused, and one says to oneself: No, there is not
more beauty here than in other places, and all these objects, which have been
marveled at by generation after generation, mended and restored by the hands of
workmen, mean nothing, are nothing, and have no heart and no value; — but
there is much beauty here, because everywhere there is much beauty”
― Letters to a Young Poet
again, even though still a bit confused, and one says to oneself: No, there is not
more beauty here than in other places, and all these objects, which have been
marveled at by generation after generation, mended and restored by the hands of
workmen, mean nothing, are nothing, and have no heart and no value; — but
there is much beauty here, because everywhere there is much beauty”
― Letters to a Young Poet
“Without looking at a particular one, standing in the middle between two rooms, one feels their presence drawing together into a colossal reality. As if these colors could heal one of indecision once and for all.”
― Letters on Cézanne
― Letters on Cézanne
“To love is good, too, for love is difficult. For one person to care for another, that is perhaps the most difficult thing required of us, the utmost and final test, the work for which all other work is but a preparation.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“Live for a while in these books, learn from them whatever seems to you worth learning, but above all love them.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“Works of art are of an infinite solitude, and no means of approach is so useless as criticism.”
―
―
“Only love can grasp them and hold them and do them justice.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“passionate reader of books in German, her favorites to date include Stiller by Max Frisch, Die Wand by Marlen Haushofer, Die Große Liebe by Hans-Josef Ortheil, Selina by Walter Kappacher, Der verschlossene Garten by Undine Gruenter, as well as the poetry of Heinrich Heine, Georg Trakl, Ingeborg Bachmann, and, of course, Rainer Maria Rilke. Gunilla currently divides her time between the Baltic Sea and the Italian Alps, where she enjoys spending time with her family, her boyfriend and her red Somali cat, Polzerino.”
― Stories of God: Geschichten vom lieben Gott
― Stories of God: Geschichten vom lieben Gott
“You said live out loud, and die you said lightly, and over and over again you said be.”
― Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God
― Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God
“There is only one way: go into yourself. Seek out the reason that commands you to write; discover if it has stretched out its roots into the deepest part of your heart, admit to yourself whether you would have to die if it were forbidden you to write.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“Es handelt sich darum, alles zu leben. Wenn man die Fragen lebt, lebt man vielleicht allmählich, ohne es zu merken, eines fremden Tages in die Antworten hinein.”
―
―
“Pues cerca de la muerte uno ya no ve la muerte y mira fijamente hacia afuera, quizás con una gran mirada de animal.”
― Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus
― Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus
“Bir mahluk vardır ki gözüne ilişirse tamamen zararsızdır, farkına varmazsın bile, hemen unutursun. Ama herhangi bir şekilde, görünmeden kulağına kaçarsa orada gelişir, sanki yumurtasından çıkar; beyne kadar ilerlediği ve bu uzuvda, tıpkı köpek pnömokokları gibi yakıp yıkarak büyüdükleri görülür.
Bu yaratık komşudur.”
― The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
Bu yaratık komşudur.”
― The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
“Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. Perhaps you do carry within you the possibility of creating and forming, as an especially blessed and pure way of living; train yourself for that -- but take whatever comes, with great trust, and as long as it comes out of your will, out of some need of your innermost self, then take it upon yourself.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“Perhaps everything terrifying is at bottom the helplessness that seeks our help.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“N'est-il pas temps
que ceux qui aiment se libèrent de l'objet aimé
et le surmontent, frémissants ? Ainsi le trait
vainc la corde pour être, rassemblé dans le bond,
plus que lui-même. Car nulle part il n'est d'arrêt.”
― Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus
que ceux qui aiment se libèrent de l'objet aimé
et le surmontent, frémissants ? Ainsi le trait
vainc la corde pour être, rassemblé dans le bond,
plus que lui-même. Car nulle part il n'est d'arrêt.”
― Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus
“Porque lo único necesario es eso: soledad, gran soledad interior. Adentrarse en sí mismo y durante horas y horas no encontrarse con nadie... eso es lo que hay que poder conseguir.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“We have already had to adjust our understanding of so many theories of planetary motion, and so too we shall gradually learn to recognize that what we call fate”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
“[...] intente amar las preguntas por sí mismas, como habitaciones cerradas o libros escritos en una lengua muy extraña. No busque ahora las respuestas: no le pueden ser dadas, porque no podría vivirlas. Y se trata de vivirlo todo. Viva ahora las preguntas.”
―
―
“Believe me, life is right in all cases.”
― Letters to a Young Poet
― Letters to a Young Poet
