Quote

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.

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
Golden
Hives
Invisible
Madly
Great
Gather
Bees
Store
Honey
Stores
Visible
Hive

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Painting is something that takes place among the colors.
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Here is the time for the sayable, here is its home. Speak and attest. More than ever the things we can live with are falling away, and ousting them, filling their place, a will with no image. Will beneath crusts which readily crack whenever the act inside swells and seeks new borders.
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I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world.
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I want to unfold. Let no place in me hold itself closed, for where I am closed, I am false.
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What we call fate does not come into us from the outside, but emerges from us.
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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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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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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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There are moments in which a rose is more important than a piece of bread
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If we surrendered to earth's intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees.
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My art is representational by choice....if the art of painting is to survive, it must describe and express people, their lives and times. It must communicate.
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It is part of the nature of every definitive love that sooner or later it can reach the beloved only in infinity.
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Why should you want to give up a child's wise not-understanding in exchange for defensiveness and scorn, since not-understanding is, after all, a way of being alone, whereas defensiveness and scorn are a participation in precisely what, by these means, you want to separate yourself from.
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For our part, when we feel, we evaporate ah, we breathe ourselves out and away with each new heartfire we give off a fainter scent. True, someone may tell us: you're in my blood, this room, Spring itself is filled with you . . . To what end? He can't hold us, we vanish within him and around him.
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The only sadnesses that are dangerous and unhealthy are the ones that we carry around in public in order to drown them out with the noise.
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And you should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is something in you that wants to move out of it.
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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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Keep growing quietly and seriously throughout your whole development you cannot disturb it more rudely than by looking outward and expecting from outside replies to questions that only your inmost feeling in your most hushed hour can perhaps answer.
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Comfort me from wherever you are–alone, we are quickly worn out if I place my head on the road, let it seem softened by you. Could it be that even from afar we offer each other a gentle breath?
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