rilke, my rilke.

i was going through my books this past week. lovingly assembling my bookshelf when i came across rilke's letters to a young poet. immediately i was brought back to a small cubicle on the second floor of the school library. it was there that i sat. first year. reading this book. understanding so little of it (as it turns out). just before i entered a prolonged period of great sadness.

i have begun again now. understanding a little bit more (much of which being the extent to which i don't know). and it seems fitting that i read re-visit the book now, as i slowly unravel my own happiness. as i slowly emerge from the darkness of a period which has marked me.

"things are not all so comprehensible and expressible as one would mostly have us believe; most events are inexpressible, taking place in a realm which no word has ever entered..."

rilke talks about art and sex and love and solitude. the things that give breath to this life.

this is all to say. this is what i will be reading this weekend. frontwards, backwards, with high-lighter and black pen. and i think you should maybe pick up your own copy. ya know?