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I live not in dreams but in contemplation of a reality that is perhaps the future.
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
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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
Contemplation
Dreams
Perhaps
Future
Reality
Dream
Live
More quotes by Rainer Maria Rilke
It was not in me It came and went I wanted to hold it It was held by wine (I no longer know what it was)
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Love the questions, themselves.
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Everything is gestation and bringing forth. To let each impression and each germ of feeling come to completion wholly in itself, in the dark, in the inexpressible, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one's own intelligence, and await with deep humility and patience the birth-hour of a new clarity: that alone is living the artist's life.
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Fame is finally only the sum total of all the misunderstanding that can gather around a new name.
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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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Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future lessens . . . . Superabundant existence wells in my heart.
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The future must enter you long before it happens.
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Isn't it time that these most ancient sorrows of ours grew fruitful? Time that we tenderly loosed ourselves from the loved one, and, unsteadily, survived: the way the arrow, suddenly all vector, survives the string to be more than itself. For abiding is nowhere.
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The highest form of love is to be the protector of another person’s solitude.
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Think... of the world you carry within you.
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You have had many sadnesses, large ones, which passed. ... But please, ask yourself whether these large sadnesses haven't rather gone right through you [that is, passed through you]. Perhaps many things inside you have been transformed perhaps somewhere, someplace deep inside your being, you have undergone important changes while you were sad.
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Here is the time for the sayable, here is its home. Speak and attest. More than ever the things we can live with are falling away, and ousting them, filling their place, a will with no image. Will beneath crusts which readily crack whenever the act inside swells and seeks new borders.
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What we call fate does not come into us from the outside, but emerges from us.
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The thought of being a creator, of engendering, of shaping is nothing without the continuous great confirmation and embodiment in the world, nothing without the thousandfold assent from Things and animals... beautiful and rich only because it is full of inherited memories of the engendering and birthing of millions.
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Do not be bewildered by the surfaces: in the depths all becomes law.
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Draw near to Nature. Then try like some first human being to say what you see and experience and love and lose.
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Do you recall, from your childhood on, how very much this life of yours has longed for greatness? I see it now, how from the vantage point of greatness it longs for even greater greatness. That is why it does not let up being difficult, but that is also why it will not cease to grow.
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Love is like the measles. The older you get it, the worse the attack.
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Things aren't all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsayable than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life
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If my devils are to leave me, I'm afraid my angels will take flight as well.
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