Letters to a Young Poet

by Rainer Maria Rilke

Things are not as easy to understand and say as we might prefer to believe; most events are inexpressible, happening in a space where no word has ever set foot, and most inexpressible of all are works of art, mysterious existences, whose life continues as ours passes away.

Here something of your own does want to come out in word and music.

No one can advise and assist you, no one. 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.

avoid at first those forms which are familiar and ordinary: they are the most difficult, for it takes a great, mature power to add something unique of your own, where there already exists a vast number of good and sometimes brilliant traditions.

describe your sorrows and desires, your passing thoughts and your faith in some kind of beauty—describe it all with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and use it to express yourself, the things that surround you, the images of your dreams, and the objects of your memory.

If your daily life seems poor to you, do not blame that: blame yourself. Tell yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is no poverty and no poor and unimportant place.

A work of art is good if it has come to be from necessity. Its judgment lies in the manner of its origin, and in nothing else. And that is why, dear sir, I knew I had no advice for you but this: to go into yourself and to examine the depths from which your life springs; at its source you will find the answer to the question—whether you must create.

I only wanted to advise you also, to grow quietly and seriously throughout your development too; you cannot disturb it more violently than if you look to the outside and from the outside expect a response to questions that only your innermost feeling at your quietest hour can possibly answer.

we are unutterably alone, and so for one to advise or even help another, much must be done, much must prosper, a whole constellation of things must turn out right in order to make it succeed even once.

Live for a while in these books, learn from them whatever seems to you worth learning, but above all love them. This love will be repaid a thousand times a thousand, and whatever your life unfolds—it will, I am sure of it, run through the fabric of your development as one of the most important threads among all the threads of your experiences, disappointments, and joys.

Works of art are of an unlimited solitude, and can be reached by nothing so little as criticism. Only love can grasp and hold them, and can face them justly.—Consider

There is no measuring with time, not even a year matters, and ten years are nothing. To be an artist means: to neither reckon nor count; to ripen like the tree, which does not rush its sap, and stands firm in the storms of spring, without anxiety that summer may not come after. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there, as if eternity lay before them, so carelessly silent and vast. I learn it daily, learn it with pain, am grateful for it: Patience is all!

If you adhere to nature, to what is simple in it, to what is small and overlooked, but can so unexpectedly become great and immeasurable; if you have this love for things that are most small and wholly simple, striving like a servant to gain their trust, even though they are obviously poor: then everything will become easier, more harmonious, and at some level reconciled, maybe not in the sense of explicit understanding, which stands back amazed, but in your innermost consciousness, in wakefulness and knowledge.

love your solitude, accept the pain it causes you, and make a melody with it.

because for me, letter-writing requires more than just the essential implements: but also a bit of quiet, and solitude, and a stable schedule.

I found that it is lovely and simple and born in the form in which it moves with such quiet grace.

perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us just once as beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrifying is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants help from us.

always my wish that you find enough patience in yourself to endure, and enough simplicity to believe; that you gain more and more confidence in what is difficult, and in particular your solitude. And for the rest, let life happen to you. Believe me: life is right, every time.