Quote

Everything is blooming most recklessly if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.

Rainer Maria Rilke

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Rainer Maria Rilke
Age: 51 †
Born: 1875
Born: December 4
Died: 1926
Died: December 29
Author
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Translator
Writer
Praha
René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke
René Maria Cäsar Rilke
Rainer Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke
Li-erh-kʻo
Rainer Maria Rielke
René Rilke
Rainer Mariyah Rilḳeh
Rainŏ Maria Rilkʻe
Reiner Marie Rilke
Rene Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke
Rene Rilke
Instead
Springtime
Voice
April
Night
Unbelievable
Nature
Colors
Everything
Voices
Heart
Seasons
Shrieking
Would
Spring
Recklessly
Color
Blooming

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Who speaks of conquering? To endure is everything.
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There is only one solitude, and it is vast, heavy, difficult to bear, and almost everyone has hours when he would gladly exchange it for any kind of sociability, however trivial or cheap, for the tiniest outward agreement with the first person who comes along.
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Since I've learned to be silent, everything has come so much closer to me.
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We are the bees of the invisible. We madly gather the honey of the visible to store it in the great golden hive of the invisible.
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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.
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You must give birth to your images. They are the future waiting to be born. Fear not the strangeness you feel. The future must enter you long before it happens. Just wait for the birth, for the the hour of the new clarity.
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Do not be bewildered by the surfaces: in the depths all becomes law.
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I beg you, to 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.
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The highest form of love is to be the protector of another person’s solitude.
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The creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in Nature, to whom his whole life is devoted.
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If, when you wake up in the morning, you can think of nothing but writing . . . then you are a writer.
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What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours-that is what you must be able to attain. To be solitary as you were when you were a child.
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Weren't you always distracted by expectation, as if every event announced a beloved? (Where can you find a place to keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside you going and coming and often staying all night.).
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For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so, because it serenely disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible.
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If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches for the Creator, there is no poverty.
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Fame — the aggregate of all the misunderstandings that collect around a new name.
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Understand, I'll slip quietly away from the noisy crowd when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks. I'll pursue solitary pathways through the pale twilit meadows with only this one dream: You come too.
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We are unutterably alone essentially, especially in the things most intimate and most important.
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Every intensification is good, if it is in your entire blood, if it isn't intoxication or muddiness, but joy which you can see into, clear to the bottom.
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And these things that keep alive on departure know that you praise them transient, they look to us, the most transient, to be their rescue. They want us to change them completely, in our invisible hearts, into -- O endlessly -- us! Whoever, finally, we may be.
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