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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.

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
Seems
Breath
Sexed
Home
Breaths
Truer
Firsts
Strive
Strangely
First
Distance
Nearer
Kind
Memory
Striving
Infinite
Attached
Second
Tenderness
Memories
Tells

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The only sadnesses that are dangerous and unhealthy are the ones that we carry around in public in order to drown them out with the noise.
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Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure, and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
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I am a house gutted by fire where only the guilty sometimes sleep before the punishment that devours them hounds them out in the open.
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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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If there is nothing you can share with other people, try to be close to Things, they will not abandon you and the nights are still here and the winds that move through the trees and across many lands everything in the world of Things and animals is still filled with happening, which you can take part in.
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Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy of being No-one's sleep under so many lids.
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Animals see the unobstructed world with their whole eyes. But our eyes, turned back upon themselves, encircle and seek to snare the world, setting traps for freedom.
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I never read anything concerning my work. I feel that criticism is a letter to the public which the author, since it is not directed to him, does not have to open and read.
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Love is like the measles. The older you get it, the worse the attack.
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Space for the Spirit to breathe.
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At the bottom no one in life can help anyone else in life this one experiences over and over in every conflict and every perplexity: that one is alone. That isn't as bad as it may first appear and again it is the best thing in life that each should have everything in himself his fate, his future, his whole expanse and world.
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In the depths all becomes law.
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They, who passed away long ago, still exist in us, as predisposition, as burden upon our fate, as murmuring blood, and as gesture that rises up from the depths of time.
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It is clear that we must embrace struggle. Every living thing conforms to it. Everything in nature grows and struggles in its own way, establishing its own identity, insisting on it at all cost, against all resistance.
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It wasn't his, it wasn't my fault, we both had nothing except patience, but Death has none. I saw him come (how meanly!) and I watched him as he took and took: none of it I could claim as mine.
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Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart.
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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.
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Do you remember how life yearned out of childhood toward the great thing? I see that it is now yearning forth beyond the great thing toward the greater one.
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