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But you, divine poet, you sang on till the end as the swarm of rejected maenads attacked you, shrieking, you overpowered their noise with harmony, and from pure destruction arose your transfigured song.

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
Ends
Till
Transfigured
Noise
Shrieking
Harmony
Swarm
Destruction
Swarms
Poet
Arose
Pure
Attacked
Divine
Sang
Song
Rejected
Overpowered

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Love and death are the great gifts that are given to us mostly they are passed on unopened.
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I know of no other advice than this: Go within and scale the depths of your being from which your very life springs forth.
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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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Who has not sat before his own heart's curtain? It lifts: and the scenery is falling apart.
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But there is much beauty here, because there is much beauty everywhere.
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Perhaps creating something is nothing but an act of profound remembrance.
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Be-and yet know the great void where all things begin, the infinite source of your own most intense vibration, so that, this once, you may give it your perfect assent.
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When we are only victorious over small things, it leaves us feeling small.
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Look: the trees exist the houses we dwell in stand there stalwartly. Only we pass by it all, like a rush of air. And everything conspires to keep quiet about us, half out of shame perhaps, half out of some secret hope.
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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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Perhaps somewhere, someplace deep inside your being, you have undergone important changes while you were sad.
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But because truly being here is so much because everything here apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.
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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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Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.
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Understand, I'll slip quietly away from the noisy crowd when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks. I'll pursue solitary pathways through the pale twilit meadows with only this one dream: You come too.
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Who is there today who still cares about a well-finished death? No one. Even the rich, who could after all afford this luxury, are beginning to grow lazy and indifferent the desire to have a death of one's own is becoming more and more rare. In a short time it will be as rare as a life of one's own.
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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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Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future lessens . . . . Superabundant existence wells in my heart.
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