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It is so often on the name of a misdeed that a life goes to pieces, not the nameless and personal action itself, which was perhaps a perfectly definite necessity of that life and would have been absorbed by it without effort.
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
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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
Effort
Definite
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Necessity
Often
Perfectly
Action
Perhaps
Without
Pieces
Misdeeds
Would
Personal
Wrongdoing
Life
Goes
Nameless
Name
Absorbed
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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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It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything. I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning.
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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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The highest form of love is to be the protector of another person’s solitude.
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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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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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If no one else, the dying must notice how unreal, how full of pretense, is all that we accomplish here, where nothing is allowed to be itself.
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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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Young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it.
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Dying is strange and hard if it is not our death, but a death that takes us by storm, when we've ripened none within us.
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the longer I live, the more necessary it seems to me to endure, to copy the whole dictation of existence to the end, for it might be that only the last sentence contains that small, perhaps inconspicuous word through which all laboriously learned and not understood orients itself toward glorious sense.
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The only journey is the one within.
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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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There is only one journey. Going inside yourself.
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Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky.
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Let everything happen to you Beauty and terror Just keep going No feeling is final
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Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.
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