Unreal Nature

January 3, 2015

Right Through Us

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:55 am

… There is delicious black soil within us and our blood needs to move only like the plow …

This is from The Poet’s Guide to Life: The Wisdom of Rilke edited and translated by Ulrich Baer (2005):

… Never to be done. Never to have the seventh day. Never to see that all is good. Dissatisfaction is youth. God was too old at the beginning, I think. Otherwise he would not have stopped on the evening of the sixth day. And not on the thousandth day. Still not today. This is all I hold against him. That he could expend himself.

… Everything that others forget in order to make life possible we constantly strive to uncover and even make bigger; we actually awaken our monsters that we then do not oppose sufficiently to be able to slay them. Because in a certain sense we find ourselves in agreement with them; these monsters, after all, possess this surplus of power that is indispensable to those who feel compelled to exceed themselves.

… Even when music speaks, it still does not speak to us. The perfectly created work of art concerns us only insofar as it survives us. The poem enters from the inside into language, from a dimension that is always turned away from us; it fills langauge wonderfully and wells up within it to its rim — but from that point on it is beyond our reach. Colors find expression in a painting, but they are worked into it like rain into the landscape; and the sculptor teaches the stone nothing but how to shut in on itself most magnificently. Music, of course, is still close to us in its essence: it rushes toward us and we block its path so it passes straight through us. Music is almost like the air of higher regions: we breathe it deeply into the lungs of our spirit, and it infuses a more expansive blood into our hidden circulation. Yet how far music reaches beyond us! Yet how far it pushes on with no regard to us! Yet how much of which it carries right through us we still fail to seize!

[ … ]

… And I turned myself is such a way so that I no longer stood on my head and for a brief instant I closed my eyes and pulled myself together and tightened my contours the way violin strings are tightened until you feel them taut and resounding, [ … ] . So this is what one ought to be capable of at some point. Not to wait (which is what has been happening until now) for powerful things and good days to turn you into something but to preempt them and to be it yourself already: this is what one ought to be capable of at some point. Will then not everything be work? For what would be unproductive in this condition? There is delicious black soil within us and our blood needs to move only like the plow and trace furrows.




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