Rainer Maria Rilke

“we want it visible to showwhen even the most visible joy will reveal itselfonly when we have transformed it within.there’s nowhere, my love, the world can existexpect within.”

“You have had many and great sadnesses, which passed. And you say that even this passing was hard for you and put you out of sorts. But, please, consider whether these great sadnesses have not rather gone right through the center of yourself? Whether much in you has not altered, whether you have not somewhere, at some point of your being, undergone a change when you were sad?”

“How they are all about, these gentlemenIn chamberlains' apparel, stocked and laced,Like night around their order's star and gemAnd growing ever darker, stony-faced,And these, their ladies, fragile, wan, but proppedHigh by their bodice, one hand loosely dropped,Small like its collar, on the toy King-Charles:How they surround each one of these who stoppedTo read and contemplate the objects d'art,Of which some pieces still are theirs, not ours.Whit exquisite decorum they allow usA life of whose dimensions we seem sureAnd which they cannot grasp. They were aliveTo bloom, that is be fair; we, to mature,That is to be of darkness and to strive.”

“Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were behind you, like the winter that has just gone by. For among these winters there is one so endlessly winterthat only by wintering through it will your heart survive.”

“Perhaps somewhere, someplace deep inside your being, you have undergone important changes while you were sad.”

“Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confidence in the storms of spring without fear that after them may come no summer.”

“In their new personal development the girl and the woman will only be for a short time imitations of the good and bad manners of man and reiterations of man's professions. After the uncertainty of this transition it will appear that women have passed through those many, often ridiculous, changes of disguise, only to free themselves from the disturbing influence of the other sex. For women, in whom life tarries and dwells in a more incommunicable, fruitful and confident form, must at bottom have become richer beings, more ideally human beings than fundamentally easy-going man, who is not drawn down beneath the surface of life by the difficulty of bearing bodily fruit, and who arrogantly and hastily undervalues what he means to love. When this humanity of woman, borne to the full in pain and humiliation, has stripped off in the course of the changes of its outward position the old convention of simple feminine weakness, it will come to light, and man, who cannot yet feel it coming, will be surprised and smitten by it. One day—a day of which trustworthy signs are already speaking and shining forth especially in northern lands—one day that girl and woman will exist, whose name will no longer mean simply a contrast to what is masculine, but something for itself, something that will not make one think of any supplement or limit, but only of life and existence—the feminine human beings.This advance, at first very much against the will of man who has been overtaken—will alter the experience of love, which is now full of error, will change it radically and form it into a relationship, no longer between man and woman, but between human being and human being. And this more human love, which will be carried out with infinite consideration and gentleness and will be good and clean in its tyings and untyings, will be like that love which we are straining and toiling to prepare, the love which consists in this, that two lonely beings protect one another, border upon one another and greet one another.”

“Nikad ne treba očajavati, kad se nešto izgubi, osoba ili radost ili sreća; sve se još divnije vraća. Što otpasti mora, otpada, što nama pripada, uz nas ostaje, jer sve se po zakonima odvija, koji su veći od naše spoznaje i s kojima smo samo naočigled u suprotnosti. Treba u sebi živeti i na celi život misliti, na sve svoje milijone mogućnosti, širine i budućnosti, naspram kojih ne postoji ni prošlo niti izgubljeno.”

“Ein Jeder engel ist schrecklich.”

“weren’t you alwaysdistracted by expectation, as if every eventannounced a beloved? (Where can you find a placeto keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside yougoing and coming and often staying all night.)…”

“Ninguém o pode aconselhar ou ajudar, — ninguém.Não há senão um caminho. Procure entrar em si mesmo. Investigue o motivo que o manda escrever; examine se estende suas raízes pelos recantos mais profundos de sua alma; confesse a si mesmo: morreria, se lhe fosse vedado escrever? Isto acima de tudo: pergunte a si mesmo na hora mais tranqüila de sua noite: "Sou mesmo forçado a escrever?” Escave dentro de si uma resposta profunda. Se for afirmativa, se puder contestar àquela pergunta severa por um forte e simples "sou", então construa a sua vida de acordo com esta necessidade. Sua vida, até em sua hora mais indiferente e anódina, deverá tornar-se o sinal e o testemunho de tal pressão”

“Depict your sorrows and desires, your passing thoughts and beliefs in some kind of beauty- depict all that with heartfelt, quiet, humble sincerity and use to express yourself the things that surround you,the images of your dreams and the objects of your memory. If your everyday life seems poor to you, do not accuse it; accuse yourself, tell yourself you are not poet enough to summon up its riches; since for the creator there is no poverty and no poor or unimportant place.”

“Perhaps then, some day far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

“Everything in the world of things and animals is still filled with happening, which you can take part in.”

“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 with them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now.”

“For there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.”

“You, you only, exist.We pass away, till at last,our passing is so immensethat you arise: beautiful moment,in all your suddenness,arising in love, or enchantedin the contraction of work.To you I belong, however time maywear me away. From you to youI go commanded. In betweenthe garland is hanging in chance; but if youtake it up and up and up: look:all becomes festival!”

“World was in the face of the beloved--,but suddenly it poured out and was gone:world is outside, world can not be grasped.Why didn't I, from the full, beloved faceas I raised it to my lips, why didn't I drinkworld, so near that I couldn't almost taste it?Ah, I drank. Insatiably I drank.But I was filled up also, with too muchworld, and, drinking, I myself ran over.”

“Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps:silence of paintings. You language where all languageends. You timestanding vertically on the motion of mortal hearts.Feelings for whom? O you the transformationof feelings into what?--: into audible landscape.You stranger: music. You heart-spacegrown out of us. The deepest space in us,which, rising above us, forces its way out,--holy departure:when the innermost point in us standsoutside, as the most practiced distance, as the otherside of the air:pure,boundless,no longer habitable.”

“THE UNICORN: The saintly hermit, midway through his prayersstopped suddenly, and raised his eyes to witnessthe unbelievable: for there before him stoodthe legendary creature, startling white, thathad approached, soundlessly, pleading with his eyes.The legs, so delicately shaped, balanced abody wrought of finest ivory. And ashe moved, his coat shone like reflected moonlight.High on his forehead rose the magic horn, the signof his uniqueness: a tower held upright by his alert, yet gentle, timid gait.The mouth of softest tints of rose and grey, whenopened slightly, revealed his gleaming teeth,whiter than snow. The nostrils quivered faintly:he sought to quench his thirst, to rest and find repose.His eyes looked far beyond the saint's enclosure,reflecting vistas and events long vanished,and closed the circle of this ancient mystic legend.”

“THE WAIT: It is life in slow motion,it's the heart in reverse,it's a hope-and-a-half:too much and too little at once.It's a train that suddenlystops with no station around,and we can hear the cricket,and, leaning out the carriagedoor, we vainly contemplatea wind we feel that stirsthe blooming meadows, the meadowsmade imaginary by this stop.”

“SENSE OF SOMETHING COMING: I am like a flag in the center of open space.I sense ahead the wind which is coming, and must liveit through.while the things of the world still do not move:the doors still close softly, and the chimneys are fullof silence,the windows do not rattle yet, and the dust still lies down.I already know the storm, and I am troubled as the sea.I leap out, and fall back,and throw myself out, and am absolutely alonein the great storm.”

“Losing too is still ours; and even forgettingstill has a shape in the kingdom of transformation.When something's let go of, it circles; and though we arerarely the centerof the circle, it draws around us its unbroken, marvelouscurve.”

“MUSIC: Take me by the hand;it's so easy for you, Angel,for you are the roadeven while being immobile.You see, I'm scared no onehere will look for me again;I couldn't make use ofwhatever was given,so they abandoned me.At first the solitudecharmed me like a prelude,but so much music wounded me.”

“Suddenly I'm as if cast out,and this solitude surrounds meas something vast and unbounded,when my feeling, standing on the hillsof my breasts, cries out for wingsor for an end.”

“That's my window. This minuteSo gently did I alightFrom sleep--was still floating in it.Where has my life its limitAnd where begins the night?I could fancy all things around meWere nothing but I as yet;Like a crystal's depth, profoundlyMute, translucent, unlit.I have space to spare inside meFor the stars, too: so full of roomFeels my heart; so lightlyWould it let go of him, whomFor all I know I have startedTo love, it may be to hold.Strange, as if never charted,Stares my fortune untold.Why is it I am beddedBeneath this infinitude,Fragrant like a meadow,Hither and thither moved,Calling out, yet fearingSomeone might hear the cry,Destined to disappearingWithin another I.”

“Whom will you cry to, heart? More and more lonely,your path struggles on through incomprehensiblemankind. All the more futile perhapsfor keeping to its direction,keeping on toward the future,toward what has been lost.Once. You lamented? What was it? A fallen berryof jubilation, unripe.But now the whole tree of my jubilationis breaking, in the storm it is breaking, my slowtree of joy.Loveliest in my invisiblelandscape, you that made me more knownto the invisible angels.”

“I am, O Anxious One. Don't you hear my voicesurging forth with all my earthly feelings?They yearn so high, that they have sprouted wingsand whitely fly in circles round your face.My soul, dressed in silence, rises upand stands alone before you: can't you see?don't you know that my prayer is growing ripeupon your vision as upon a tree?If you are the dreamer, I am what you dream.But when you want to wake, I am your wish,and I grow strong with all magnificenceand turn myself into a star's vast silenceabove the strange and distant city, Time.”

“IMPERMANENCE"Driftsand of the hours. Quietly disappearing,continuously, even the happily consecrated design.Life blows away, always: pillars already risewithout connection, carrying nothing but empty air.”

“Out of infinite longings risefinite deeds like weak fountains,falling back just in time and trembling.And yet, what otherwise remains silent,our happy energies—show themselvesin these dancing tears.”

“Someday there will be girls and women whose name will no longer mean the mere opposite of the male, but something in itself, something that makes one think not of any complement and limit, but only life and reality: the female human being.”

“His gaze is from the passing of barsso exhausted, that it doesn't hold a thing anymore.For him, it's as if there were thousands of barsand behind the thousands of bars no world.The sure stride of lithe, powerful steps,that around the smallest of circles turns,is like a dance of pure energy about a center,in which a great will stands numbed.Only occasionally, without a sound, do the covers of the eyes slide open—. An image rushes in,goes through the tensed silence of the frame—only to vanish, forever, in the heart.- The Panther”

“O shooting starthat fell into my eyes and through my body-:not to forget you. To endure.”

“I would describe myself like a landscape I’ve studied at length, in detail; like a word I’m coming to understand; like a pitcher I pour from at mealtime; like my mother’s face; like a ship that carried me when the waters raged.”

“For here there is no placethat does not see you. You must change your life.”

“I love the dark hours of my being.My mind deepens into them.There I can find, as in old letters,the days of my life, already lived,and held like a legend, and understood.”

“Num casal há sempre um que que é o guardião da solidão do outro.”

“Aber nun, da so vieles anders wird, ist es nicht an uns, uns zu verändern? Könnten wir nicht versuchen, uns ein wenig zu entwickeln, und unseren Anteil Arbeit in der Liebe langsam auf uns nehmen nach und nach? Man hat uns alle ihre Mühsal erspart, und so ist sie uns unter die Zerstreuungen geglitten, wie in eines Kindes Spiellade manchmal ein Stück echter Spitze fällt und freut und nicht mehr freut und endlich daliegt unter Zerbrochenem und Auseinandergenommenem, schlechter als alles. Wir sind verdorben vom leichten Genuß wie alle Dilettanten und stehen im Geruch der Meisterschaft. Wie aber, wenn wir unsere Erfolge verachteten, wie, wenn wir ganz von vorne begännen die Arbeit der Liebe zu lernen, die immer für uns getan worden ist? Wie, wenn wir hingingen und Anfänger würden, nun, da sich vieles verändert.”

“All things want to float.”

“I do not wish to say that one should love death; but one should love life so magnanimously, so without calculating and selecting, that love of death (the turned-away side of life) is continually and involuntarily included - which actually happens invariably in the great motions of love, which are impetuous and illimitable.”

“Being dead filled her beyond fulfillment. Like a fruit suffused with its own mystery and sweetness, she was filled with her vast death, which was so new, she could not understand that it had happened.”

“And I circle ten thousand years long; And I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song.”

“Long you must suffer, knowing not what,until suddenly out of spitefully chewed fruit your suffering's taste comes forth in you.Then you will love almost instantly what's tasted. No one will ever talk you out of it.”

“‎Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.So you mustn’t be frightened, if a sadness rises in front of you, larger than any you have ever seen; if an anxiety, like light and cloud-shadows, moves over your hands and over everything you do. You must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall.”

“I have a notion that, at big fires, a moment of extreme suspense can sometimes occur, when the jets of water slacken off, the firemen no longer climb, no one moves a muscle. Without a sound, a high black wall of masonry cants over up above, the fire blazing behind it, and, without a sound, leans, about to topple. Everyone stands waiting, shoulders tensed, faces drawn in around their eyes, for the terrible crash. That is how the silence is here.”

“Children are still the way you were as a child, sad and happy in just the same way--and if you think of your childhood, you once again live among them, among the solitary children.”

“So don't be frightened, dear friend, if a sadness confronts you larger than any you have ever known, casting its shadow over all you do. You must think that something is happening within you, and remember that life has not forgotten you; it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall. Why would you want to exclude from your life any uneasiness, any pain, any depression, since you don't know what work they are accomplishing within you?”

“Who is there today who still cares about a well-finished death? No one. Even the rich, who could after all afford this luxury, are beginning to grow lazy and indifferent; the desire to have a death of one's own is becoming more and more rare. In a short time it will be as rare as a life of one's own.”

“The highest form of love is to be the protector of another person’s solitude.”

“Lovers, if Angels could understand them, might utterstrange things in the midnight air. For it seems that everything'strying to hide us. Look, the trees exist; the houseswe live in still stand where they were. We onlypass everything by like a transposition of air.And all combines to suppress us, partly as shame,perhaps, and partly as inexpressible hope.”