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Fate loves to invent patterns and designs. Its difficulty lies in complexity. But life itself is difficult because of its simplicity. It has only a few things of a grandeur not fit for us.

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
Lying
Patterns
Difficult
Fit
Things
Difficulty
Life
Loves
Designs
Inspire
Grandeur
Fate
Invent
Lies
Complexity
Design
Simplicity

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Leave to your opinions their own quiet undisturbed development, which, like all progress, must come from deep within and cannot be pressed or hurried by anything.
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Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, Must I write?
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Never believe fate is more than the condensation of childhood.
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Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'hierarchies? and even if one of thempressed me against his heart: I would be consumedin that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothingbut the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure,and we are so awed because it serenely disdainsto annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying.
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A billion stars go spinning through the night, / glittering above your head, / But in you is the presence that will be / when all the stars are dead.
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Shattered people are best represented by bits and pieces.
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Who has not sat before his own heart's curtain? It lifts: and the scenery is falling apart.
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We are unutterably alone essentially, especially in the things most intimate and most important.
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I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything!
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No great art has ever been made without the artist having known danger.
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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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I live not in dreams but in contemplation of a reality that is perhaps the future.
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Our being is continually undergoing and entering upon changes. ... We must, strictly speaking, at every moment give each other up and let each other go and not hold each other back.
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Be forever dead in Eurydice-more gladly arise into the seamless life proclaimed in your song. Here, in the realm of decline, among momentary days, be the crystal cup that shattered even as it rang.
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Those doves below, the ones utterly cared for, never endangered ones, cannot know tenderness.
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But there is much beauty here, because there is much beauty everywhere.
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My blood is alive with many voices telling me I am made of longing.
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How can I keep my soul in me, so that it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise it high enough, past you, to other things?
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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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For our part, when we feel, we evaporate ah, we breathe ourselves out and away with each new heartfire we give off a fainter scent. True, someone may tell us: you're in my blood, this room, Spring itself is filled with you . . . To what end? He can't hold us, we vanish within him and around him.
Rainer Maria Rilke