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And even if you were in some prison, the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses - would you not then still have your childhood, that precious, kingly possession, that treasure-house of memories?
Rainer Maria Rilke
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Rainer Maria Rilke
Age: 51 †
Born: 1875
Born: December 4
Died: 1926
Died: December 29
Author
Novelist
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Poet
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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
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More quotes by Rainer Maria Rilke
Joy is a marvelous increasing of what exists, a pure addition out of nothingness.
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Only those sadnesses are dangerous and bad which one carries about among people in order to drown them out.
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One of the most difficult tests for the creator: he must always remain unconscious, unaware of his best virtues, if he doesn't want to rob them of their candor and innocence.
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Those doves below, the ones utterly cared for, never endangered ones, cannot know tenderness.
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As the arrow endures the string, and in the gathering momentum becomes more than itself. Because to stay is to be nowhere.
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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 want to unfold. I don’t want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie.
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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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Deeply I go down into myself. My god is Dark and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence.
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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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Love consists of this: two solitudes that meet, protect and great each other.
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Weren't you always distracted by expectation, as if every event announced a beloved? (Where can you find a place to keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside you going and coming and often staying all night.).
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Do continue to believe that with your feeling and with your work you are taking part in the greatest the more strongly you cultivate in yourself this belief, the more will reality and world go forth from it.
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It was not in me It came and went I wanted to hold it It was held by wine (I no longer know what it was)
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Love is something difficult and it is more difficult than other things because in other conflicts nature herself enjoins men to collect themselves, to take themselves firmly in the hand with all their strength, while in the heightening of love the impulse is to give oneself wholly away.
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For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)-they are experiences.
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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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Perhaps creating something is nothing but an act of profound remembrance.
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Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.
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If your everyday life appears to be unworthy subject matter, do not complain to life. Complain to yourself, Lament that you are not poet enough to call up its wealth.
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