Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926)

This seems to me a peculiarly precious book -- one of those small gems, perfect in their way, that change your life and to which you return over and over.

Composed of excerpts from letters Rilke wrote to his wife Clara in 1907, this brief book chronicles the encounter of a great writer with the work of a great painter ... and how that encounter forever changed the way the writer looked at the world and his work.

I admit to being in the midst of a feverish obsession with Cezanne's work myself. show more And while trying to stay short of "this is what I think because of what another person wrote" I would like to say that Rilke has clarified and deepened the way I look at Cezanne's work (and also made me hungry for more Rilke ... is that "win-win" as they say in that alien world, business?)

Highest recommendation. I will buying my own copy to have around for re-reading. show less

Probably the most infuriating book of poetry I've ever read, perhaps will ever read. The highs and lows are so dizzyingly high and so mind-numbingly, banally low that I couldn't always keep pace. The first and tenth elegies were high, the other elegies interesting and beautiful, if you can stomach the whole whiney little boy thing he falls into occasionally, and his affection for idiot-metaphysics ('Sein Aufgang ist Dasein' and so forth). Many of the sonnets, however, are appalling. Once show more Rilke ditches the generally critical stance of the elegies (complaints on injustice, suffering etc...) the idiot-metaphysics becomes overwhelming:

"Be - and at the same time know the implication of non-being...
to nature's whole supply of speechless, dumb,
and also used up things, the unspeakable sums,
rejoicing, add yourself and nullify the count."

Not to say there aren't great sonnets in there too, but my overall impression was one of disgust at this wonderful poet - what's more human than poetry? - wanting to become an object, thrilling in a mysticism of death. Add this to the apparent desire for a god to save us from the injustice and suffering so perfectly evoked in the elegies (uh... couldn't we save ourselves?), and my brain explodes. Because the whole thing is so beautiful, and at once so horrible, that there's nothing else for my brain to do. show less

In our 'constantly connected' computer age, Rilke's deep exploration of solitude and patient artistic growth is a breath of inspiration.

"Only love can touch and hold [works of art] and be fair to them," he writes to Kappus, and then admonishes him to "believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it."

It is an show more understatement to say that Rilke sets the bar high for poetic expression, but every time I read through these letters I'm inspired to at least try to create what he'd call a few good lines before I breathe my last. show less

Rilke really said: stop asking for answers and go have an existential crisis about it instead. Surprisingly comforting about it, though.

A slim book of letters that somehow manages to feel both intensely personal and universally applicable. Equal parts “this changed my brain chemistry” and “sir, please elaborate,” Letters to a Young Poet is essentially one long, thoughtful “it’s not that deep—but also it absolutely is” about art, solitude, and becoming yourself. Some passages show more hit like quiet revelations; others feel like being gently told to go sit with your feelings. Still holds up. show less