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The creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in Nature, to whom his whole life is devoted.

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
World
Obsession
Creator
Nature
Find
Everything
Whole
Must
Life
Devoted

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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.
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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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What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours-that is what you must be able to attain. To be solitary as you were when you were a child.
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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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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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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.
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It wasn't his, it wasn't my fault, we both had nothing except patience, but Death has none. I saw him come (how meanly!) and I watched him as he took and took: none of it I could claim as mine.
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Painting is something that takes place among the colors.
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Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confidence in the storms of spring without fear that after them may come no summer
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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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Just keep going - no feeling is final.
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All things want to float.
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most people come to know only one corner of their room, one spot near the window, one narrow strip on which they keep walking back and forth.
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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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Perhaps everything terrifying is deep down a helpless thing that needs our help.
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...a carefree letting go of oneself, not a caution, but a wise blindness.
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Perhaps somewhere, someplace deep inside your being, you have undergone important changes while you were sad.
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I never read anything concerning my work. I feel that criticism is a letter to the public which the author, since it is not directed to him, does not have to open and read.
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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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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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