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The artist's experience lies so unbelievably close to the sexual, to its pain and its pleasure, that the two phenomena are really just different forms of one and the same longing and bliss.

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
Different
Close
Phenomena
Really
Pleasure
Bliss
Lying
Sexual
Pain
Longing
Experience
Forms
Artist
Sex
Two
Lies
Form
Creativity
Unbelievably

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Be out of sync with your times for just one day, and you will see how much eternity you contain within you.
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If my devils are to leave me, I'm afraid my angels will take flight as well.
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To all that is used-up, and to all the muffled and dumb creatures in the world's full reserve, the unsayable sums, joyfully add yourself, and cancel the count.
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She who reconciles the ill-matched threads Of her life, and weaves them gratefully Into a single cloth – It’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall And clears it for a different celebration.
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Fame is finally only the sum total of all the misunderstanding that can gather around a new name.
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Sometime we will have to stop overevaluating the word. We shall learn to realize that it is only one of the many bridges that connect the island of our soul with the great continent of common life. . . the broadest, perhaps, but in no way the most refined.
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Let your beauty manifest itself without talking and calculation. You are silent. It says for you: I am. And comes in meaning thousandfold, comes at long last over everyone.
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Ah, not to be cut off, not through the slightest partition shut out from the law of the stars. The inner -- what is it? if not the intensified sky, hurled through with birds and deep with the winds of homecoming.
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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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Live the questions now.
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And these things that keep alive on departure know that you praise them transient, they look to us, the most transient, to be their rescue. They want us to change them completely, in our invisible hearts, into -- O endlessly -- us! Whoever, finally, we may be.
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One had to take some action against fear when once it laid hold of one.
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Let everything happen to you Beauty and terror Just keep going No feeling is final
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Look, we don't love like flowers with only one season behind us when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms.
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Everything is blooming most recklessly if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.
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Those doves below, the ones utterly cared for, never endangered ones, cannot know tenderness.
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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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This is what the things can teach us: to fall, patiently to trust our heaviness. Even a bird has to do that before he can fly.
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We are the bees of the invisible. We madly gather the honey of the visible to store it in the great golden hive of the invisible.
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There are so many things about which some old man ought to tell one while one is little for when one is grown one would know them as a matter of course.
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