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Rainer Maria Rilke

Rainer Maria Rilke Quotes

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Famous Rainer Maria Rilke Quotes

“If then you notice that [your solitude] is great, rejoice because of this; for what (ask yourself) would solitude be that had no greatness; there is but one solitude, and that is great, and not easy to bear, and to almost everybody come hours when they would gladly exchange it for any sort of intercourse, however banal and cheap, for the semblance of some slight accord with the first comer, with the unworthiest... But perhaps those are the very hours when solitude grows; for its growing is painful as the growing of boys and sad as the beginning of springtimes. But that must not mislead you. The necessary thing is after all but this: solitude, great inner solitude.”

Solitude
Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“And to think that I might have become a poet like that if I had been allowed to settle somewhere, anywhere in the world, in one of the many shuttered-up houses in the country that no one looks after anymore. I would only have needed one room (the light room in the gable). I would have lived inside it with my old things, my family portraits, my books. And I would have had an armchair, and flowers and dogs, and a stout stick for rocky paths. And nothing else. Only a book bound in yellowing ivory-coloured leather with a flowery pattern for its endpapers: I would have written in it. I would have written a great deal, because I would have had many thoughts and memories of many things.”

WritingPoetryHouseMemoriesBooksSolitudeCountrysideRoom
Book:The notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
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“Whether it be the singing of a lamp or the voice of a storm, whether it be the breath of an evening or the groan of the ocean — whatever surrounds you, a broad melody always wakes behind you, woven out of a thousand voices, where there is room for your own solo only here and there. To know when you need to join in: that is the secret of your solitude: just as the art of true interactions with others is to let yourself fall away from high words into a single common melody.”

CommunicationSolitudeWordsConnectionInteraction
Book:The Collected Works of Rainer Maria Rilke: The Complete Works PergamonMedia
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“And even if you were in some prison the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses would you not then still have your childhood, that precious, kingly possession, that treasure-house of memories? turn your attention thither.try to raise the submerged sensations of the ample past; your personality will grow more firm, your solitude will widen and will become a dusky dwelling past which the noise of others goes by far away. And if out of this turning inward, out of this absorption into your own world verses come, then it will not occur to you to ask anyone whether they are good verses. nor will you try to interest magazines in your poems; for you will see in them your fond natural possessions, a fragment and a voice of your life.”

InspirationalWritingPoetrySolitude
Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“Whenever one speaks of lonely people one takes too much for granted. One thinks people all know what they're dealing with. No, they do not. They've never seen a lonely person, they've simply hated him without knowing him. They've been his neighbours who've used him up, they were the voices in the next room who tempted him. They roused things up against him, getting them to make a din and drown him out. Children ganged up against him when he was a tender child, and at every stage of his growing up he grew hostile to grown-ups . They tracked him to his hiding-place like an animal of chase and throughout his long youth there was no closed season. And when he didn't allow himself to be worn out so that he got away they yelled about what came forth from him and called it ugly and were suspicious of it. And as he didn't stop they grew more obvious and gobbled up his food and breathed up his air and spat into his poverty so that he himself became disgusted at it. They brought him into disrepute as if he were a contagion and threw stones at him to speed his departure. And they were right to follow their age-old instinct: because he really was their enemy. But then when he didn't look up they had second thoughts. They suspected that in all of this they had acted as he had willed them to act; they had strengthened him in his solitude and had helped him separate himself from them for ever.”

SorrowSolitudeAnxietyLonersMobbing
Author:Rainer Maria Rilke
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“It is true that many young people who wrongly, that is, simply with abandon and unsolitarily, feel the oppressiveness of a failure and want to make the situation in which they have landed viable and fruitful in their own personal way—; for their nature tells them that, less even than all else that is important, can questions of love be solved publicly and according to this or that agreement; that they are questions, intimate questions from one human being to another, which in any case demand a new, special, only personal answer—: but how should they, who have already flung themselves together and no longer mark off and distinguish themselves from each other, who therefore no longer possess anything of their own selves, be able to find a way out of themselves, out of the depth of their already shattered solitude?”

LoveSolitudeIndependent Thinking
Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“There is only one solitude, and it is great and is not easy to bear, and to almost everyone there come hours when they would gladly exchange it for some kind of communion, however banal and cheap, for the appearance of some slight harmony with the most easily available, with the most undeserving… But perhaps those are just the hours when solitude grows; for its growing is painful like the growing of boys and sad like the beginning of Spring.”

Solitude
Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“The more we speak of solitude, the clearer it becomes that at the bottom it is not something one can choose to take or leave. We are lonely. One can deceive oneself about it and act as if it were not so. That is all. But it is so much better to see that we are so, indeed even to presuppose it. It will make us dizzy, of course; because all the focal points on which our eyes were used to resting are taken away from us, there is nothing near us anymore, and everything distant is infinitely distant.”

LonelinessSolitude
Author:Rainer Maria Rilke
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“What is needed is this, and this alone: solitude, great inner loneliness. Going into oneself and not meeting anyone for hours – that is what one must arrive at. Loneliness of the kind one knew as a child, when the grown-ups went back and forth bound up in things which seemed grave and weighty because they looked so busy, and because one had no idea what they were up to. And when one day you realise that their preoccupations are meagre, their professions barren and no longer connected to life, why not continue to look on them like a child, as if on something alien, drawing on the depths of your own world, on the expanse of your own solitude, which itself is work and achievement and a vocation? Why wish to exchange a child’s wise incomprehension for rejection and contempt, when incomprehension is solitude, whereas rejection and contempt are ways of participating in what, by precisely these means, you want to sever yourself from?”

ChildhoodSolitude
Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“And that is why it is so important to be solitary and attentive when one is sad: because the seemingly uneventful and motionless moment when our future steps into us is so much closer to life than that other loud and accidental point of time when it happens to us as if from outside. The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are in our sadnesses, the more deeply and serenely the new presence can enter us, and the more we can make it our own...”

PainSadnessSolitude
Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“Put out my eyes: and I shall see you, too, seal up my ears: and I shall hear you still, and without feet I yet can go to you, and with no mouth, adjure you and I will. Break off my arms, and I shall hold you fast even with my heart, as though it were a hand; arrest my heart, my brain to throb is sworn, and if into my brain you fling a brand, yet on my very blood you will be borne.”

LovePoetryPoemMemorySenses
Book:Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God
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“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.”

LifeExperiencePatienceQuestions
Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“You, yesterday’s boy, to whom confusion came: Listen, lest you forget who you are. It was not pleasure you fell into. It was joy. You were called to be bridegroom, though the bride coming toward you is your shame. What chose you is the great desire. Now all flesh bares itself to you. On pious images pale cheeks blush with a strange fire. Your senses uncoil like snakes awakened by the beat of the tambourine. Then suddenly you’re left all alone with your body that can’t love you and your will that can’t save you. But now, like a whispering in dark streets, rumors of God run through your dark blood.”

GodYoungDesireYouthRegret
Book:Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God
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“Perhaps many things inside you have been transformed; perhaps somewhere, someplace deep inside your being, you have undergone important changes while you were sad. 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; like diseases that are treated superficially and foolishly, they just withdraw and after a short interval break out again all the more terribly; and gather inside us and are life, are life that is unlived, rejected, lost, life that we can die of.”

LifeChangeSadnessDangerousDepthDieWithin
Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“If you trust in Nature, in the small Things that hardly anyone sees and that can so suddenly become huge, immeasurable; if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more reconciling, not in your conscious mind perhaps, which stays behind, astonished, but in your innermost awareness, awakeness, and knowledge. - Mitchell translation”

NatureHumilitySimplicityAuthenticity
Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“Never did a book reveal such truths, Why seek a name? It matters not; The boundless found a shape and form In sacrifice's sacred knot. Oh see, what is possession's worth If it knows not to offer its all? Things pass away. Aid them in passing, Lest life from a hidden crack should fall. Forever, be the giver, not the taker. The mule, the cow—all press their way To where the king’s image, like a child, Is sated, smiles, and softly lays. His temple breathes unceasing calm, He takes and takes, yet grants reprieve, So gentle even, the princess's hand Holds the papyrus bloom, but does not cleave. Here, sacrifice’s paths are cut, The Sunday rises, ungrasped by weeks. Man and beast drag gains aside, Unseen by gods, as profit speaks. Though hard, commerce bends to will, Earth cheapened, tamed by practiced skill, But one who pays the ultimate price, Surrenders all—they too are sacrificed.”

SacrificeAncient EgyptEgyptian MagicEgyptian Religion And Magic
Author:Rainer Maria Rilke
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“Never did a book reveal such truths, Why seek a name? It matters not; The boundless found a shape and form In sacrifice's sacred knot. Oh see, what is possession's worth If it knows not to offer its all? Things pass away. Aid them in passing, Lest life from a hidden crack should fall. Forever, be the giver, not the taker. The mule, the cow—all press their way To where the king’s image, like a child, Is sated, smiles, and softly lays. His temple breathes unceasing calm, He takes and takes, yet grants reprieve, So gentle even, the princess's hand Holds the papyrus bloom, but does not cleave. Here, sacrifice’s paths are cut, The Sunday rises, ungrasped by weeks. Man and beast drag gains aside, Unseen by gods, as profit speaks. Though hard, commerce bends to will, Earth cheapened, tamed by practiced skill, But one who pays the ultimate price, Surrenders all—they too are sacrificed. (Translation by CoPilot AI)”

ReligionMagicSacrificeEgyptAntiquityAncient Egypt
Book:Samtliche Werke
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“The nymph who laments, guardian of our spring of tears, Dares come only within the compass of praising, of song, - She who watches over the settling of the precipitate, That it be clear, on that same rock That bears the gates and the altars. - See, about her shoulders so tranquil there rises The sensation that she must be the youngest Of those sisters, to be disposed so. Exultation knows, and fierce Desire acknowledges, - Only Lamentation must still learn; with a maiden’s hand She counts out the old sorrows through the night. But suddenly, slantwise and unpractised, She holds aloft a constellation of our voices Against the heavens, left unobscured by her breath.”

MourningDivinityDoorOrpheusNymphDivine Sorrow
Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“Oh scattered band, once my playmates, you few Who were amidst the gardens here and there in the city, How hesitantly we located one another, took fancies and Like the tapestry lamb whose mute words are on a scroll, Spoke through silence. Our little joys were Never communicated, - Whose indeed were they? And among all the passers-by, those hurriers, how it all Evanesced quite away, weighed down by the torment of the endless year. Past us were drawn the carriages, wholly indifferent, Round us the houses stood strong but not real, - and none Of these were aware of us. What was truly real in it all? Nothing. Only the balls we tossed, their magnificent arcs, But certainly not the children. ... Though sometimes one would step - Alas, one who would soon be lost, - beneath a falling ball.”

ChildhoodComing Of AgeGrowing Pains
Book:Sonnets to Orpheus
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“So don't be frightened, dear friend, if a sadness confronts you larger than any you have ever known, casting its shadow over all you do. You must think that something is happening within you, and remember that life has not forgotten you; it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall. Why would you want to exclude from your life any uneasiness, any pain, any depression, since you don't know what work they are accomplishing within you?”

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Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“But what offering can I consecrate to you, oh Master? - You, who have bestowed hearing upon all creatures? - My memory of one spring day, In the evening, in Russia, - a stallion ... Running alone from the hamlet across to us The pale horse, a tethering-peg dangling from his fetlock, To spend a night solitary in the meadow; How he shook his tangled mane, Tossed in time to his haughty step, Despite his clumsily impeded gallop. How the fountains leapt up of his charger’s blood! He intuited the vastnesses and, oh from that He sang! He heard! - yes, your cycle of legends Was embraced within him. His image: that I offer.”

PrayerDivinityLittle ThingsGod In Everything
Book:Sonnets to Orpheus
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“Anche amare è bene: poiché l’amore è difficile. Volersi bene, da uomo a uomo: è forse questo il nostro compito più arduo, l’estremo, l’ultima prova e verifica, il lavoro che ogni altro lavoro non fa che preparare. Per questo i giovani, che sono principianti in tutto, ancora non sanno l’amore; lo devono imparare. Con tutto l’essere, con tutte le energie, raccolte intorno al loro cuore solitario, ansioso, dal battito anelante, devono imparare ad amare. Ma il tempo dell’apprendistato è sempre un tempo lungo, chiuso al mondo, e così amare è a lungo, e fin nel pieno della vita, solitudine, intenso e approfondito isolamento per colui che ama. Amare non significa fin dall’inizio essere tutt’uno, donarsi e unirsi a un altro (poiché cosa sarebbe mai unire l’indistinto, il non finito, ancora senza ordine?); è una sublime occasione per il singolo di maturare, di diventare in sé qualcosa, di diventare mondo, diventare mondo per sé per amore di un altro, è una grande, immodesta pretesa a lui rivolta, qualcosa che lo presceglie e lo chiama a vasti uffici. Solo in questo senso, come compito di lavorare a sé (“di stare all’erta e martellare notte e dì”), i giovani potrebbero usare l’amore che viene loro dato. Essere tutt’uno e donarsi e ogni sorta di comunione non è per loro (che ancora a lungo devono risparmiare e radunare), è il compimento, è forse quello per cui oggi intere vite umane ancora non sono sufficienti. In questo però i giovani sbagliano così spesso e gravemente: che essi (nella cui natura è non avere pazienza) si gettano l’uno all’altro quando l’amore li assale, si spandono così come sono, in tutto il loro disordine, scompiglio e turbamento… Ma come fare allora? (…) Se resistiamo e prendiamo su di noi questo amore come fardello e tirocinio, invece di perderci in tutto quel gioco frivolo e lieve (…) allora forse un piccolo progresso e un certo sollievo saranno percettibili a coloro che verranno molto dopo di noi (…) E questo amore più umano (…) somiglierà a quello che noi lottando con fatica andiamo preparando, l’amore che consiste in questo: che due solitudini si proteggano, si limitino e si inchinino l’una innanzi all’altra.”

AmoreVitaSolitudineGioventù
Book:Lettere a un giovane poeta/Lettere a una giovane signora/Su Dio
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“It is also good to love: because love is difficult. For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us, the ultimate task, the final test and proof, the work for which all other work is merely preparation. That is why young people, who are beginners in everything, are not yet capable of love: it is something they must learn.”

LoveDifficultYouthIncapableTask
Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“Go not to bed leaving bread and milk behind On the table: these summon the dead. But He, the exorcist, mingles Under the mildness of our eyelids Their spectres amongst all else that we see; And the spells from fumitory of earth smoke and of rue Are as explicit to Him as the clearest logical connection. Nothing can derange for Him the truly formed image, Be it of graves, be it of rooms, Singing of rings, of spangles, of urns.”

SpiritualityExorcismOrpheus
Book:Sonnets to Orpheus
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“Flowers, you who end in close affinity to the arrangers’ hands (Hands of girls then, hands of girls now), You who cover the garden table from end to end, Grown weak, gently injured, Waiting for water which revives you once more From a death already commenced - and now Again taken up between the opposing, sorting Fingers and their feeling of you, and which can so well Show you favour, give ease more than you had imagined, As you recover yourselves in a jug, Cooling slowly, and the ardour of the girls like confessions Given up by you, seeping forth like muddy and tiresome sins You committed by being plucked, - these are another tie between you, So joined in alliance by both your blossomings.”

FlowersGirlhoodPatriarchal CultureFlorist
Book:Sonnets to Orpheus
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“Girl dancer! Oh you shifting Of all that passes into steps: how you manage that! And the eddy at the end, a tree made from a vortex, Does it not take full possession of the swirling year? And the tip of your tree, does it not blossom Quietly above you, from your spinning? Is it not Your limitless warmth, the sun, The summer, its heat? But your tree of ecstasy bears, Gives quiet fruit: the flagon streaked with ripeness, And the vase riper still.”

DancerHuman ExperiencePerformance Art
Book:Sonnets to Orpheus
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“Oh arrive and leave. You were still half a child, Completing a dancing pose for but a moment, The pure form of a star constellation, which is One of the ways in which we overcome the mindless random order Of Nature, also just for a moment. For it was only when Orpheus sang That Nature awoke and heard, was quickened in alertness. Though far away in time, this stirred you. And you were somewhat Surprised that a tree considered so slowly and hesitated To join with you in hearing it. You sensed the very place where the lyre Raised itself aloft -; the mid-point which has never been heard. For you ventured your beautiful steps And you hoped, one day in holy celebration To alter the course and countenance of your friend. (Her friend is himself.)”

DeathDancerDivinityPerformance ArtThe Dancer S Second Death
Book:Sonnets to Orpheus
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“Entre el día y el sueño estoy en casa donde duermen los niños, tibios de correrías y los viejos se sientan por la tarde, y arden hogares y su espacio alumbran. Entre el día y el sueño estoy en casa donde suenan campanas de oración y muchachas, cohibidas por ecos que se extinguen, se apoyan fatigadas en el brocal del pozo. Y hay un tilo, que es mi árbol predilecto: y todos los veranos que en él callan se vuelven a mover en las mil ramas y entre el día y el sueño vuelven a despertar.”

LifePoemVidaPoema
Author:Rainer Maria Rilke
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“And these Things, which live by perishing, know you are praising them; transient, they look to us for deliverance: us, the most transient of all. They want us to change them, utterly, in our invisible heart, within - oh endlessly - within us! Whoever we may be at last. Earth, isn't this what you want: to arise within us, invisible? Isn't it your dream to be wholly invisible someday?”

TransfigurationThe Being Of ThingsEarth PoetryMind And Nature
Author:Rainer Maria Rilke
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