Paris,
February 17,
1903.
Dear Sir,
Your letter only reached me a few days ago.
I want to thank you for its great and kind confidence.
I can hardly do more.
I cannot go into the nature of your verses,
For all critical intention is too far from me.
Everything touches a work of art so little his words of criticism.
They always come down to more or less happy misunderstandings.
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,
And more inexpressible than all else are works of art,
Mysterious existences,
The life of which,
While ours passes away,
Endures.
With this note as a preface,
May I just tell you that your verses have no style of their own,
Although they do show quiet and hidden beginnings of something personal.
I feel this most clearly in the last poem,
My Soul.
There,
Something of your own wants to come through to word and melody,
And in the lovely poem to Leopardi,
A kind of kinship with that great solitary figure does perhaps appear.
Nevertheless,
The poems are not yet anything in themselves,
Not yet anything independent,
Even the last one and the one to Leopardi.
Your kind letter,
Which accompanied them,
Managed to make clear to me various faults that I felt in reading your verses,
Though I am not able to name them specifically.
You ask whether your verses are good.
You ask me.
You have asked others before.
You send them to magazines.
You compare them with other poems,
And you were disturbed when certain editors reject your efforts.
Now,
Since you have allowed me to advise you,
I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing.
You're looking outside,
And that is what you should have most avoid right now.
Nobody can counsel and help you.
Nobody.
There is only one single way.
Go into yourself.
Search for the reason that bids you write.
See whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart.
Acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write.
This above all,
Ask yourself in the stillness hour of your night,
Must I write?
Dig into yourself for a deep answer.
And if this answer rings out in a scent,
If you meet this solemn question with a strong,
Simple,
I must,
Then build your life in accordance with this necessity,
Your whole life,
Even into its humblest and most indifferent hour,
Must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it.
Then draw near to nature.
Then as if no one had ever tried before,
Try to say what you see and feel and love and lose.
Do not write love poems.
Avoid at first those forms that are too facile and commonplace.
They are the most difficult,
For it takes a great,
Fully matured power to give something of your own where good,
Even glorious,
Traditions exist in abundance.
So rescue yourself from these general themes and seek that which your everyday life offers you.
Describe your sorrows and desires,
Passing thoughts and the belief in some sort of beauty.
Describe all of these with a heartfelt,
Quiet,
Humble sincerity and,
When you express yourself,
Use the things in your environment,
The images from your dreams and the objects of your memory.
If your everyday life seems poor,
Don't blame it.
Blame yourself.
Admit to yourself that you were not poet enough to call forth its riches,
For to the Creator there is no poverty and no poor in different place.
And even if you were in some prison,
The walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses,
Wouldn't you still have your childhood,
The precious,
Kingly possession,
That treasure house of memories?
Turn your attention to it.
Try to raise the submerged sensations of that ample past.
Your personality will grow more firm.
Your solitude will expand and become a place where you live in the twilight,
Where the noise of other people passes by far in the distance.
And if out of this turning inwards,
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 these works,
For you will see them as your dear natural possessions,
A fragment and a voice of your life.
A work of art is good if it is sprung from necessity.
In this nature of its origin lies the judgment of it,
There is no other.
Therefore,
My dear sir,
I know no advice for you save this,
To go into yourself and test the depths in which your life takes rise.
At its source you will find the answer to the question of whether you must create.
Accept that answer,
Just as it is given to you,
Without trying to interpret it.
Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist.
Then take that destiny upon yourself and bear it,
Its burden and its greatness,
Without ever asking what reward might come from the outside.
For the Creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in nature,
To whom his whole life is devoted.
But perhaps after this descent into yourself and into your inner solitude,
You will have to give up becoming a poet.
If,
As I have said,
One feels one could live without writing,
Then one shouldn't write at all.
But even then,
This inward searching which I ask of you will not be in vain.
Your life will still find its own paths from there,
And that they may be good,
Rich and wide I wish for you more than I can say.
What else can I tell you?
Everything seems to me to have its just emphasis,
And after all I do,
Only want to advise you to keep growing quietly and seriously throughout your whole development.
You cannot disturb it more rudely than by looking outward and expecting from outside replies,
Answers to questions that only your innermost feeling in your most hushed hour can perhaps answer.
It was a pleasure for me to find in your letter the name of Professor Horacek.
I have a great reverie for that lovable and learned man,
And a gratitude that endures through the years.
Will you,
Please,
Tell him how I feel?
It is very good of him still to think of me,
And I know how to appreciate it.
The verses which you kindly entrusted to me I am returning at the same time.
And I thank you once more for your great and sincere confidence,
Of which I have tried,
Through this honest answer given to the best of my knowledge,
To make myself a little worthier than,
As a stranger,
I really am.
Yours faithfully and with all sympathy,
Rainer Maria Rilke.
