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Selected Letters 1902-1926
Rilke is perhaps the most famous of all twentieth-century European poets. He was born in Prague in 1875 but much of his life is characterized by a restless wandering which brought him into contact with some of the greatest figures of the age, among them Lou Andreas-Salome, Tolstoy, Rodin and Cezanne. He died in Switzerland in 1926. With two exceptions this selection is made exclusively from the five volumes of letters published by the Inselverlag up to 1935, covering the period 1902 to 1926. (from book's Notes)
Paperback
First published January 1, 1926
About the author
Rainer Maria Rilke
1,939 books7,343 followersA mystic lyricism and precise imagery often marked verse of German poet Rainer Maria Rilke, whose collections profoundly influenced 20th-century German literature and include
The Book of Hours
(1905) and
The Duino Elegies
(1923).
People consider him of the greatest 20th century users of the language.
His haunting images tend to focus on the difficulty of communion with the ineffable in an age of disbelief, solitude, and profound anxiety — themes that tend to position him as a transitional figure between the traditional and the modernist poets.
His two most famous sequences include the Sonnets to Orpheus , and his most famous prose works include the Letters to a Young Poet and the semi-autobiographical The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge .
He also wrote more than four hundred poems in French, dedicated to the canton of Valais in Switzerland, his homeland of choice.
People consider him of the greatest 20th century users of the language.
His haunting images tend to focus on the difficulty of communion with the ineffable in an age of disbelief, solitude, and profound anxiety — themes that tend to position him as a transitional figure between the traditional and the modernist poets.
His two most famous sequences include the Sonnets to Orpheus , and his most famous prose works include the Letters to a Young Poet and the semi-autobiographical The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge .
He also wrote more than four hundred poems in French, dedicated to the canton of Valais in Switzerland, his homeland of choice.
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September 8, 2026
Editor Harry T. Moore raises expectations in the reader when he writes: “Unlike the correspondence of many poets, Rilke’s was not a weary and hasty by-product but rather it was an important phase of his poetic activity.” In other words, the letters form a second body of artistic creation. That may be true, although I found too many of them—especially the earlier letters—whiny, self-centered, and fawning.
I hoped to gain insight into the creative process, perhaps even to understand his poems better. I thought I had found the former in a letter to his wife, Clara, from April 1906, in which he describes Rodin at work. Fascinating, but when one recalls that Clara took lessons from Rodin before meeting Rilke, it comes across as mansplaining.
In a letter to Countess Margot Sizzo-Noris-Crouy on March 17, 1922, Rilke shared a keen observation about the craft of poetry: “The poet’s task is increased by the strange obligation to set apart his word from the words of everyday life and communication thoroughly and fundamentally. No word in the poem (I mean here every ‘and’ or ‘the’) is identical with the same-sounding word in common use and conversation.”
As for aid in interpreting Rilke’s poems, the best came in a letter to Witold von Hulewicz, his Polish translator, November 13, 1925, in which Rilke insists that the angel of the Duino Elegies “has nothing to do with the angel of the Christian heaven.” Failing to recognize this would lead to misunderstanding. I’m not quite sure what Rilke meant when he wrote that the angel “is the creature in whom the transformation of the visible into the invisible, which we are accomplishing, appears already consumed,” but I felt it was worth thinking about.
At their best, these letters weave a hypnotic trance—epistolary foreplay, even (see especially the letters to “Benvenuta”; Rilke often gave pet names to his intimates). At other times, such as in a letter to Mimi Romanelli, dated December 8, 1907, they read like pretentious claptrap. Either way, when he wrote to Lisa Heise on August 2, 1919, “I belong to those old-fashioned people who consider the letter a means toward a most beautiful and fulfilling relationship,” I felt he was revealing a valuable clue. His letters served to maintain relationships without having to endure the physical presence of his correspondents.
A kindly interpretation for this is that Rilke recognized his poetic vocation early on and fought for the solitude (and luxurious surroundings) he felt he needed to fulfill it. In many letters, he laments his long fallow periods; this might well have been easier to confess with his pen than face-to-face with one of his benefactors.
With time, Rilke seems to have accepted that long dry spells were part of achieving his best work. In a letter to “Merline” of February 22, 1921, he declared, without any hint of defensiveness: “Understand me: much as I belong to, and am the servant of my work, I cannot evoke it.”
All the more satisfying to read the exultation of his letters to Merline, Princess Marie von Thurn und Taxis-Hohenlohe (his principal benefactress), and Lou Andreas-Salome (his one-time lover and lifelong mother confessor) at the close of the explosion of creativity in February 1922 that filled out the Duino Elegies, begun a decade earlier, as well as the unexpected Sonnets to Orpheus that began the outburst. He knew from the first that the Elegies might be his masterpiece. When finally achieved, he couldn’t contain his enthusiasm.
Reaching this point after persevering through dry patches was rewarding for me as a reader, too.
The translations printed here come from several writers, and the quality varies. Some are so wooden that they were easier to understand by reverse-translating back into German. Perhaps one day I’ll pick up a similar collection in the original.
I hoped to gain insight into the creative process, perhaps even to understand his poems better. I thought I had found the former in a letter to his wife, Clara, from April 1906, in which he describes Rodin at work. Fascinating, but when one recalls that Clara took lessons from Rodin before meeting Rilke, it comes across as mansplaining.
In a letter to Countess Margot Sizzo-Noris-Crouy on March 17, 1922, Rilke shared a keen observation about the craft of poetry: “The poet’s task is increased by the strange obligation to set apart his word from the words of everyday life and communication thoroughly and fundamentally. No word in the poem (I mean here every ‘and’ or ‘the’) is identical with the same-sounding word in common use and conversation.”
As for aid in interpreting Rilke’s poems, the best came in a letter to Witold von Hulewicz, his Polish translator, November 13, 1925, in which Rilke insists that the angel of the Duino Elegies “has nothing to do with the angel of the Christian heaven.” Failing to recognize this would lead to misunderstanding. I’m not quite sure what Rilke meant when he wrote that the angel “is the creature in whom the transformation of the visible into the invisible, which we are accomplishing, appears already consumed,” but I felt it was worth thinking about.
At their best, these letters weave a hypnotic trance—epistolary foreplay, even (see especially the letters to “Benvenuta”; Rilke often gave pet names to his intimates). At other times, such as in a letter to Mimi Romanelli, dated December 8, 1907, they read like pretentious claptrap. Either way, when he wrote to Lisa Heise on August 2, 1919, “I belong to those old-fashioned people who consider the letter a means toward a most beautiful and fulfilling relationship,” I felt he was revealing a valuable clue. His letters served to maintain relationships without having to endure the physical presence of his correspondents.
A kindly interpretation for this is that Rilke recognized his poetic vocation early on and fought for the solitude (and luxurious surroundings) he felt he needed to fulfill it. In many letters, he laments his long fallow periods; this might well have been easier to confess with his pen than face-to-face with one of his benefactors.
With time, Rilke seems to have accepted that long dry spells were part of achieving his best work. In a letter to “Merline” of February 22, 1921, he declared, without any hint of defensiveness: “Understand me: much as I belong to, and am the servant of my work, I cannot evoke it.”
All the more satisfying to read the exultation of his letters to Merline, Princess Marie von Thurn und Taxis-Hohenlohe (his principal benefactress), and Lou Andreas-Salome (his one-time lover and lifelong mother confessor) at the close of the explosion of creativity in February 1922 that filled out the Duino Elegies, begun a decade earlier, as well as the unexpected Sonnets to Orpheus that began the outburst. He knew from the first that the Elegies might be his masterpiece. When finally achieved, he couldn’t contain his enthusiasm.
Reaching this point after persevering through dry patches was rewarding for me as a reader, too.
The translations printed here come from several writers, and the quality varies. Some are so wooden that they were easier to understand by reverse-translating back into German. Perhaps one day I’ll pick up a similar collection in the original.
Displaying 1 - 1 of 1 review