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We are not permitted to linger, even with what is most intimate.

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
Linger
Permitted
Intimate
Even

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I feel it now: there's a power in me to grasp and give shape to my world I know that nothing has ever been real without my beholding it. All becoming has need me.
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Swells, Marina? we ocean, depths, Marina? we sky!
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Fig tree, how long it's been full meaning for me, the way you almost entirely omit to flower and into the seasonably-resolute fruit uncelebratedly thrust your purest secret. Like the tube of a fountain, your bent bough drives the sap downwards and up: and it leaps from its sleep, scarce waking, into the joy of its sweetest achievement.
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But suppose the endlessly dead were to wake in us some emblem: they might point to the catkins hanging from the empty hazel trees, or direct us to the rain descending on black earth in early spring. --- And we, who always think of happiness rising, would feel the emotion that almost baffles us when a happy thing falls.
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Your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes, far in the distance.
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Of all my books, I find only a few indispensible.
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You must think that something is happening upon you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand it will not let you fall.
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If you trust in Nature, in the small Things that hardly anyone sees and that can so suddenly become huge, immeasurable if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor, then everything will become easier for you.
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Fame is the sum of the misunderstanding that gathers about a new name.
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I am circling around God, around the ancient tower, and I have been circling for a thousand years, and I still don't know if I am a falcon, or a storm, or a great song.
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Joy is a marvelous increasing of what exists, a pure addition out of nothingness.
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Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy of being No-one's sleep under so many lids.
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Earth, is not this what you will: in us to rise up invisible? Is it, O Earth, not your dream once to be wholly invisible? Earth! Invisible! What, if not change, is your desperate mission?
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Comfort me from wherever you are–alone, we are quickly worn out if I place my head on the road, let it seem softened by you. Could it be that even from afar we offer each other a gentle breath?
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I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.
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We make our way through Everything like thread passing through fabric, giving shape to images that we ourselves do not know.
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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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If you will stay close to nature, to its simplicity, to the small things hardly noticeable, those things can unexpectedly become great and immeasurable.
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Right in the difficult we must have our joys, our happiness, our dreams: there against the depth of this background, they stand out, there for the first time we see how beautiful they are.
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If only we arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us that we must hold to the difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust and find most faithful.
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