#the duino elegies

[celtos]

rainer maria rilke. duino elegies

[luciferetlucia]

"For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure, and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying."

Rainer Maria Rilke, The First Elegy (The Duino Elegies & the Sonnets to Orpheus, tr. Stephen Mitchell)

[raskoolz]

The Duino Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke

Angel Appears to Balaam by Gustave Doré, 1866

The First Elegy:

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the Angelic Orders?

And even if one were to suddenly

take me to its heart, I would vanish into its

stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but

the beginning of terror, that we are still able to bear,

and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains

to destroy us. Every Angel is terror.

And so I hold myself back and swallow the cry

of a darkened sobbing. Ah, who then can

we make use of? Not Angels: not men,

and the resourceful creatures see clearly

that we are not really at home

in the interpreted world. Perhaps there remains

some tree on a slope, that we can see

again each day: there remains to us yesterday’s street,

and the thinned-out loyalty of a habit

that liked us, and so stayed, and never departed.

Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind full of space

wears out our faces – whom would she not stay for,

the longed-for, gentle, disappointing one, whom the solitary heart

with difficulty stands before. Is she less heavy for lovers?

Ah, they only hide their fate between themselves.

Do you not know yet? Throw the emptiness out of your arms

to add to the spaces we breathe; maybe the birds

will feel the expansion of air, in more intimate flight.

Yes, the Spring-times needed you deeply. Many a star

must have been there for you so you might feel it. A wave

lifted towards you out of the past, or, as you walked

past an open window, a violin

gave of itself. All this was their mission.

But could you handle it? Were you not always,

still, distracted by expectation, as if all you experienced,

like a Beloved, came near to you? (Where could you contain her,

with all the vast strange thoughts in you

going in and out, and often staying the night.)

But if you are yearning, then sing the lovers: for long

their notorious feelings have not been immortal enough.

Those, you almost envied them, the forsaken, that you

found as loving as those who were satisfied. Begin,

always as new, the unattainable praising:

think: the hero prolongs himself, even his falling

was only a pretext for being, his latest rebirth.

But lovers are taken back by exhausted Nature

into herself, as if there were not the power

to make them again. Have you remembered

Gaspara Stampa sufficiently yet, that any girl,

whose lover has gone, might feel from that

intenser example of love: ‘Could I only become like her?’

Should not these ancient sufferings be finally

fruitful for us? Isn’t it time that, loving,

we freed ourselves from the beloved, and, trembling, endured

as the arrow endures the bow, so as to be, in its flight,

something more than itself? For staying is nowhere.

Voices, voices. Hear then, my heart, as only

saints have heard: so that the mighty call

raised them from the earth: they, though, knelt on

impossibly and paid no attention:

such was their listening. Not that you could withstand

God’s voice: far from it. But listen to the breath,

the unbroken message that creates itself from the silence.

It rushes towards you now, from those youthfully dead.

Whenever you entered, didn’t their fate speak to you,

quietly, in churches in Naples or Rome?

Or else an inscription exaltedly impressed itself on you,

as lately the tablet in Santa Maria Formosa.

What do they will of me? That I should gently remove

the semblance of injustice, that slightly, at times,

hinders their spirits from a pure moving-on.

It is truly strange to no longer inhabit the earth,

to no longer practice customs barely acquired,

not to give a meaning of human futurity

to roses, and other expressly promising things:

no longer to be what one was in endlessly anxious hands,

and to set aside even one’s own

proper name like a broken plaything.

Strange: not to go on wishing one’s wishes. Strange

to see all that was once in place, floating

so loosely in space. And it’s hard being dead,

and full of retrieval, before one gradually feels

a little eternity. Though the living

all make the error of drawing too sharp a distinction.

Angels (they say) would often not know whether

they moved among living or dead. The eternal current

sweeps all the ages, within it, through both the spheres,

forever, and resounds above them in both.

Finally they have no more need of us, the early-departed,

weaned gently from earthly things, as one outgrows

the mother’s mild breast. But we, needing

such great secrets, for whom sadness is often

the source of a blessed progress, could we exist without them?

Is it a meaningless story how once, in the grieving for Linos,

first music ventured to penetrate arid rigidity,

so that, in startled space, which an almost godlike youth

suddenly left forever, the emptiness first felt

the quivering that now enraptures us, and comforts, and helps.

[a-ramblinrose]

“Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic orders? And even if one of them suddenly pressed me against his heart, I should fade in the strength of his stronger existence. For Beauty’s nothing but beginning of Terror we’re still just able to bear, and why we adore it so is because it serenely disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible. And so I repress myself, and swallow the call-note of depth-dark sobbing.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke, from 'The First Elegy' (translated by J.B. Leishman)

[thepersonalwords]

Even when the lights go out, even when someone says to me: "It's over---," even when from the stage a gray gust of emptiness drifts toward me,even when not one silent ancestor sits beside me anymore---not a woman, not even the boy with the brown squint-eye:I'll sit here anyway. One can always watch.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies

[foursaints]

who do you think would be the most likely to live a fanfic coffee shop romance??????? honestly the more i think about it the more i see a snobby wine connoisseur regulus in a fancy restaurant and cheerful sommelier james which is not coffee shop au buttttttttt

jegulus is often so endearing to me because they're two characters for whom the cheesy fanfiction romance tropes actually make SENSE... james & regulus have an identical commute and are always picking up from the same hole-in-the-wall hipster coffee shop at the same time. regulus is the grumpy snobby fuck in pleated trousers who's always like "large dark roast. black." and refuses to call it "venti" or whatever. james is the guy before him in line who thinks it's amusing to come up with increasingly stupid and convoluted orders (remus is the barista & his roommate & just gives him a psl regardless) just because he likes to see regulus look more & more aghast each day.....

[dk-thrive]

And we: spectators, always, everywhere, turned toward the world of objects, never outward. It fills us.  We arrange it.  It breaks down. We rearrange it, then break down ourselves.

— Rainer Maria Rilke, from "Eight Elegy" in Duino Elegies (Insel Verlag, 1923) (via Thoughts)

[edwardian-girl-next-door]

"O upturned glance: / new, warm, receding ripple of the heart –"

Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies, "The Second Elegy" (tr. Alfred Corn)

[lionofchaeronea]

Every angel means terror--and yet (woe's me) / I sing unto you, you all-but-fatal birds of the soul, / knowing all about you. Jeder Engel ist schrecklich. Und dennoch, weh mir, / ansing ich euch, fast tödliche Vögel der Seele, / wissend um euch. -Rainer Maria Rilke, "Duino Elegies" No. 2

[glittergroovy]

[u2fangirlie-blog]

Crowley Reads The Duino Elegies by Rilke

Crowley reads "The Duino Elegies" by Rainer Maria Rilke. He has a first edition copy signed by Rilke. Crowley annotated the poems in red ink. Some pages are tear stained. He keeps the book locked in a safe where no one else will see it. Hastur, Beelzebub, and Shax would make fun of him if they knew. Crowley tried to discuss Rilke with Aziraphale, but the angel doesn't understand "The Duino Elegies." It's not his taste in poetry. The pain and yearning are beyond Aziraphale's personal experience. That is all. I won't be taking questions. Thanks for coming to my talk.

Part of the First Elegy - Rainer Maria Rilke, Stephen Mitchell, translator

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure, and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying.

P.S.: If you have never read "The Duino Elegies," you can read it in the original German, or I recommend the English translation by Stephen Mitchell. It is superior to other translations.

[waywordsstudio]

3 Word Review: “Duino Elegies” by Rainer Maria Rilke -

Thick reverie, message-wearied verse, but passionate and mystical, paradoxical and devotional to the human condition.

[yorgunherakles]

tek tanrımdı mutsuzluk.

rimbaud / cehennemde bir mevsim

[celtos]

rainer maria rilke. duino elegies

[wellconstructedsentences]

what we're now striving for was once nearer and truer and attached to us with infinite tenderness. Here all is distance there it was breath . . .

Duino Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke

[christreginlave]