Quote

Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps: silence of paintings. You language where all language ends. You time standing vertically on the motion of mortal hearts.

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
Music
Breathing
Heart
Hearts
Time
Standing
Vertically
Painting
Statues
Perhaps
Paintings
Silence
Mortal
Language
Motion
Ends
Mortals

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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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Whoever you are, go out into the evening, leaving your room, of which you know every bit your house is the last before the infinite, whoever you are.
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The future must enter you long before it happens.
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Spring has again returned. The Earth is like a child that knows many poems. Many, O so many. For the hardship of such long learning she receives the prize. Strict was her teacher. The white in the old man's beard pleases us. Now, what to call green, to call blue, we dare to ask: She knows, She knows!
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Since I've learned to be silent, everything has come so much closer to me.
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Right in the difficult we must have our joys, our happiness, our dreams: there against the depth of this background, they stand out, there for the first time we see how beautiful they are.
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Strangely, I heard a stranger say, I am with you.
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Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'hierarchies? and even if one of thempressed me against his heart: I would be consumedin that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothingbut the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure,and we are so awed because it serenely disdainsto annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying.
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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 am circling around God, around the ancient tower, and I have been circling for a thousand years, and I still don't know if I am a falcon, or a storm, or a great song.
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Every intensification is good, if it is in your entire blood, if it isn't intoxication or muddiness, but joy which you can see into, clear to the bottom.
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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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Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave.
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Love the questions themselves...Live the questions now and have confidence that someday far into the future, [I will live my] way into the answer.
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...a carefree letting go of oneself, not a caution, but a wise blindness.
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We are not permitted to linger, even with what is most intimate.
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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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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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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.
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If we surrendered to earth's intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees.
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