Chapter 3 3. The first letter

Dear Mr, Your letter came to me only a few days ago.I want to thank you for your great and dear reliance on the letter.Besides, there's very little I can do.I cannot comment on your poetics; for the intent of every criticism is too far from mine.Nothing is more or less isolated from a work of art than the written word of criticism; more or less accidental misunderstandings are always enacted at the same time.All things are not so intelligible and utterable as we would have us believe; most events are incommunicable, they lie entirely in a space that language has never reached; but more ineffable than all is Works of art, they are mysterious existences, their lives continue beyond our impermanent life.

Since I wrote such an opinion in advance, I still have to tell you that your poems do not have their own characteristics, and naturally there is also a tendency towards individuality quietly lurking in the dark.I feel this situation is most obvious in the last poem "My Soul", which shows something of itself between the lines.Also in that beautiful poem "To Leopardi" there is a kind of spiritual communion with this great and lonely poet.Even so, your poems are nothing in themselves, not independent, not even the last one and "To Reopati".When I read your poems, I feel some flaws that cannot be clearly stated, but the kind letter you sent along with the poems explained these flaws to me virtually.

In your letter you asked if your poem was good.you ask me.You have asked others before.You send them to magazines. You compare your poems with other people's; you are disturbed if some editorial office rejects your draft.Then (because you allow me to advise you), I beseech you, give it all up!You look outside, that's the last thing you should be doing right now.No one can advise you, no one can help you.There is only one unique way.Please go to your heart.Explore the reason that told you to write, and examine whether its roots are coiled deep in your heart; you must confess frankly, if you cannot write, whether it will surely kill you because of it.This is the most important thing: Ask yourself in the stillest hours of your night: Do I have to write?You have to dig a deep answer within yourself.If the answer is yes, and you can answer the serious question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life according to that need; Every little moment must be a sign and proof of this creative impulse.Then you are close to nature.You have to practice speaking as a human being about what you have seen, experienced, loved, and lost.Do not write love poetry; avoid first those forms that are too popular and common: they are the most difficult; A great and skilled force.So you eschew those common themes, and return to what your own daily life presents to you; you describe your sorrows and wishes, passing thoughts and beliefs in a certain beauty—with deep, silent, modest Describe all this sincerely, express yourself with the things around you, the pictures in your dreams, and the objects in your memories.If your daily life seems poor to you, don't complain about it; blame yourself instead, for not being a poet enough to call out life's treasures; for there is no poverty for the Creator, nor is there innocence.Even if you yourself were in a prison whose walls shut off the noise of the world from your sensibility--have you not not not still possessed forever your childhood, the treasure of rich splendor, the treasure-house of memories?Please pay more attention to that aspect!Try to pick up the moving past that has been depressed for a long time; your personality will gradually become fixed, your loneliness will gradually expand, and become a hazy living room, and the noise of others will only pass by far away. ——If you tune back and listen to it, and produce "poetry" from the depths of your own world, you will never want to ask others whether this is a good poem.You will no longer try to get magazines to notice these works: for in them you will see your dear natural products, fragments and voices of your life.A work of art is good as long as it arises from necessity.In its origin as such lies its judgment: there is no other way.So, dear sir, I have no advice other than this: go within and explore the depths where your life originates, and in its origin you will get the answer to the question, is it a "necessary" creation.

What it says, how you accept it, there is no need to explain it.It may tell you that your job is to be an artist.Then accept this fate, take its burden and its greatness, and care not for rewards from without.Because the creator must be a complete world by himself, and get everything in himself and the nature that he is connected with. But maybe after some exploration of yourself and loneliness, you will stop thinking about being a poet (that's enough, when you feel that you can live without writing, it can make us decide not to try again); that's it, The reflections I ask of you are not in vain.In any case, your life will find its own way from here on, and it should be a good, rich, wide way, and I wish more from you than I can tell.

What else should I say to you?I feel that everything is as it should be; and it boils down to me just advising you to grow out of your development quietly and seriously; nothing hurts your development more seriously than looking outside and waiting for an answer from the outside, you Know that your questions may only be answered by your deepest emotions in your most delicate moments. I am very glad to have read the name of Professor Holajek in your letter; I have great respect and gratitude for this kind scholar for many years.Greet him for me; it is a great honor to him that he remembers me to this day.

I return the poem you kindly sent me.Once again I thank you for your generosity and fidelity in my trust; I am a stranger and cannot be helpful, but I want to repay your trust in case I write this faithful reply written in good conscience. With All Loyalty and Care: René Maria Rilke 1903, 2, 18; Paris ① Giacomo Leopardi (Giacomo Leopardi, 1798-1837), a famous Italian poet.