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Yet everything that touches us, me and you, takes us together like a violin's bow, which draws one voice out of two separate strings.

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
Together
Touches
Everything
Bows
Like
Strings
Separate
Draws
Takes
Voice
Two
Violin

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The necessary thing is after all but this solitude, great inner solitude. Going into oneself for hours meeting no one - this one must be able to attain.
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[A]t bottom, and just in the deepest and most important things, we are unutterably alone, and for one person to be able to advise or even help another, a lot must happen, a lot must go well, a whole constellation of things must come right in order once to succeed.
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It seems to me that the only way one can be helpful is to extend one's hand to someone else involuntarily, and without ever knowing how useful this will be.
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Do not, do not, do not books for ever hammer at people like perpetual bells? When, between two books, silent sky appears: be glad
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Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.
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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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Life and death: they are one, at core entwined. Who understands himself from his own strain presses himself into a drop of wine and throws himself into the purest flame.
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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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Just keep going - no feeling is final.
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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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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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Isn't it time that these most ancient sorrows of ours grew fruitful? Time that we tenderly loosed ourselves from the loved one, and, unsteadily, survived: the way the arrow, suddenly all vector, survives the string to be more than itself. For abiding is nowhere.
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If we surrendered to earth’s intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees. Instead we entangle ourselves in knots of our own making and struggle, lonely and confused. So like children, we begin again... to fall, patiently to trust our heaviness. Even a bird has to do that before he can fly. (from the poem How Sure Gravity's Law)
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Lord, it is time. The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose. Command the last fruits that they shall be full give them another two more southerly days, press them on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetiness into the heavenly wine.
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I am a house gutted by fire where only the guilty sometimes sleep before the punishment that devours them hounds them out in the open.
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Do you remember how life yearned out of childhood toward the great thing? I see that it is now yearning forth beyond the great thing toward the greater one.
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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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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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Painting is something that takes place among the colors.
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The highest form of love is to be the protector of another person’s solitude.
Rainer Maria Rilke