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If we surrendered to earth's intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees.

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
Like
Surrendered
Rooted
Trees
Rise
Intelligence
Tree
Nature
Earth
Heaviness

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As if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose.
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Everything that makes more of you than you have ever been, even in your best hours, is right. Every intensification is good.
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No experience has been too unimportant, and the smallest event unfolds like a fate, and fate itself is like a wonderful, wide fabric in which every thread is guided by an infinitely tender hand and laid alongside another thread and is held and supported by a hundred others
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Fame is the sum of the misunderstanding that gathers about a new name.
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The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.
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One had to take some action against fear when once it laid hold of one.
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What we fight with is so small, and when we win, it makes us small. What we want is to be defeated, decisively, by successively greater things
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Let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right, always.
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And do not change. Do not divert your love from visible things. But go on loving what is good, simple and ordinary animals and things and flowers, and keep the balance true.
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She followed slowly, taking a long time, As though there were some obstacles in the way And yet: as though, once it was overcome, She would be beyond all walking, and would fly.
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But your solitude will be a support and a home for you, even in the midst of very unfamiliar circumstances, and from it you will find all your paths.
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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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No great art has ever been made without the artist having known danger.
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Life and death: they are one, at core entwined. Who understands himself from his own strain presses himself into a drop of wine and throws himself into the purest flame.
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a kind of memory that tells us that what we're now striving for was once nearer and truer and attached to us with infinite tenderness. Here all is distance, there it was breath. After the first home the second one seems draughty and strangely sexed.
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He who does not at some time, with definite determination consent to the terribleness of life, or even exalt in it, never takes possession of the inexpressible fullness of the power of our existence.
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