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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.

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
Small
Noticeable
Nature
Immeasurable
Unexpectedly
Become
Hardly
Great
Simplicity
Things
Inspiring
Close
Stay

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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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The artist's task consists of making one thing of many, and a world from the smallest part of a thing.
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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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Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps: silence of paintings. You language where all language ends. You time standing vertically on the motion of mortal hearts.
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Whoever you are, go out into the evening, leaving your room, of which you know every bit your house is the last before the infinite, whoever you are.
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Take your well-disciplined strengths, stretch them between the two great opposing poles, because inside human beings is where God learns.
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Perhaps creating something is nothing but an act of profound remembrance.
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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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If, when you wake up in the morning, you can think of nothing but writing . . . then you are a writer.
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Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave.
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Harshness vanished. A sudden softness has replaced the meadows' wintry grey. Little rivulets of water changed their singing accents. Tendernesses, hesitantly, reach toward the earth from space, and country lanes are showing these unexpected subtle risings that find expression in the empty trees.
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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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