My first reaction to
'Letters to a Young Poet' was why wait till three years after the author's
death to get them published? Perhaps it is because art has an irritating
tendency to go up in price after it is known the artist has demised; one of the
sad prophecies of capitalism and our modern era certainly in the early
twentieth century - something that Franz Kafka found altogether disturbing
about the human condition.
I'm not claiming the letter property owner Franz
Kappus did wrong in publishing the correspondences, of the impression, Rilke
needn't of minded anyhow; even though they never actually met physically -
nevertheless, a great correspondence comradeship was built; Rainer Rilke gifted
his young protege his prose, deep down Rilke was flattered that a young officer
who had dreams of becoming a poet had asked him for guidance, a twenty six year
old a writer of no fixed address and still Kappus managed to send Rilke his
verses; this is quite a feat in February 1903.
- - -
I'd delayed my
response to reading 'Letters to a Young Poet' by several years I did so purely
for dramatic effect, as per usual I over-indulged time wise. You'd have thought
the time lapse would've created a prose with at least a blue sealed Paris
postmark on the envelope. Envelopes are twentieth century paraphernalia;
neither Rilke or Kappus had the pleasure of writing digitally in real time, if
they did I suspect the two possibly would've grown tired of each others 140
character hourly tweets. "Goodness me, another post with Rilke lapping
up solitary confinement." Ye-s I delayed my response to reading
'Letters to a Young Poet' to go down the same route the correspondences took
place; perhaps to compensate for my lack of blue seal Paris postmarks, at least
this comes to you hopefully with the option to click buttons. Indeed-y, I can
only imagine the anticipated frenzy the young Kappus mustered up when he
received Rilke's correspondences. Refined intellectualism and penned wisdom was
the order of the day when Rilke communicated to Kappus, done in the most
remarkably conversational manner possible, why it has inspired creatives since.
No doubt this was Kappus's intention... "why should it be only Kappus who
has the divine pleasure to read from a master?" Such percipience and inspiration deserves
airtime the entitlement of a 'Penguin Classic' platform. The communication
duration were between 1903 - 08; ten letters in all; commencing February 17th
1903 in Paris. A sharp insight into the world Rilke lived and worked; from
worries, hopes, frustrations, yearnings and ills - warts et al. Kappus doesn't
publish his letters with Rilke's; for he chooses to be mute because when a
great master and unique person speaks one must engage in silence. Kappus
remains an almost non-entity in the literature sense; he did editor a magazine
and showed a flair, but he's really only affiliated via the Rainer Rilke
association - then again he did allowed himself to write the 'Preface;' consisting of two pages, signed off as Franz
Xaver Kappus, Berlin - June 1929
Rilke's tentative
approach initially is fed back to the reader, 'Dear Sir,' he starts with as he
configures the response of having been sent verses for his attention. He
neither pours out praise nor tears down the delicate foundation of a young
apprentice walking his first steps. A deft prose is called for, I read it as a
literature performance, nurturing and watering early buds of promise. If an
intransigent was made - Rilke was fundamentally claiming the verses have no
identity of their own accord; they exist purely as a latent statement. I
interpreted the advice as a lifting of a dainty veil, thus, Rilke's
subconsciousness.Somehow, the reader needn't have to read the verses to
comprehend its nature; no, you're immersed with Rilke's accumulation of
observations.
The trusted method of epistolary form brings personal impetus adds worthiness to an ever increasing detached existence, hence; more about the
sign of the time and modern world etiquette; i.e. even the foul-mouthed letter
tended to end off with a... 'yours faithfully' - yesteryear's smiley face. As
we move on-wards to a collective state of personal disenfranchisement away from
the epistolary form, I've a longing for the lost art. Scholars of the past have
portrayed a love for letters, Christopher Hitchens spoke adoringly of having to
write letters in his book, 'Letters to a Young Contrarian,' his humbled
beginning echoes Rilke to a tee... "my tentative acceptance of a challenge
that was made to me..." The only misconception Christopher Hitchens 'may
have had' (I say this nervously because I suspect he really did know) was the
impression Rainer Maria Rilke had suggested to Kappus to publish the ten
letters. I'm not so sure, for I would expect a letter to express Rilke's
specifics / wishes, no such letter has emerged from Kappus's epistolary vault.
Twenty-first century
Rilke
What is endearing to
read is that the onus was to not to advise but to point out the requirement to
'go into yourself.' Rilke examines the reason why you must write. His prose can
be adapted to all creatives; for it applies across the spectrum. There's
something universally genetic that writer are 'most' creative when they learn
to take advantage during the most quietest hour (s). Harvesting the urge per
se. Don't aim to write love poems, remove yourself from habitual familiarity;
first understand and arm yourself with maturity prior to flicking the heart
strings. Cupids don't have the answer. Love can only be comprehended when
you've lost it. The empty void cannot be replaced by canine or feline but
they're likened to a packet of 'stomach soothers' - a progressive calming
influence. Life experience is everything to an artist, no magazine is really
interested in learning of anything mainstream or cliche alas extraordinarily
has a path of its very own. Why the descent into oneself has to be true, honest
and necessary - selfishness paramount; the idea is to invent a new world,
advising you to eat seedless grapes and cubed melons prior to venturing within
is therefore obsolete. Rilke is incredibly self explanatory, the book
consciously stimulates prose.
Much of the apophthegms gets you sighing on the
surface, but if you delve deeper you'll find no one is in total solitary, or
have little knowledge of knowing what it is like. I learn't a plethora of
modern authors take a sojourn to equip themselves away from social media,
family and news feeds; of the knowledge solitude finishes novels.Today, the
besiege of distraction is ultimately counterproductive to creativity. Why
innovators live in a demoralized state of 'what ifs' - your damned if you do
and damned if you don't; the perfect idiom - Rainer Rilke would be a
sympathiser if he walked about Paris today; people watching - witnessing the
burden of head bowing to the sweet tones of handheld devices; while chasing
tails and existing via bio-directional media interactions. I can imagine he'll
write of our digi-orientated 'zombie condition;' only to stop to send a
'instagram message' showing dear Kappus his banana split. "Checkout the
plume of cream billowing out of my phallic banana dear Kappus."
At least 'Letter to a
Young Poet' is rich in modern day ills; the reader (s) are incessantly double
checking the date of the epistolary - peculiar that the dialogues were written
over a century ago. There's a letter which Rainer Rilke wrote on November 4th
1904 - notably buoyant; 'My dear Mr. Kappus' he rattles on... "I think of you often dear Mr.
Kappus, with such a concentration of good wishes that really in some way ought
to help." By this comment I
felt the master was going to commission his protege - alas not, at times he
detracts and claims his letters have zero value and truly hopes they're to be
left to sink in gently into the psyche; imitating butter on a piece of hot
toast. His message was to have faith and to tred the path of loneliness...
again - indeed, life has a uncanny means to sorting out 'life' courses,
regardless of early ambitions. He ends off by sending an off-print job
opportunity from the 'Deutsche Arbeit' which is a Prague journal. Life's little
mysteries always ends up in the obituaries. Morbidity stroke melodramatics litters Rilke's prose, he's gratifyingly a true artist, relentlessly soul
searching; invariably suffering with influenza and craves for an audience to
cradle the beautiful wordage as if a newborn lamb - forty eight pages worth of
pulchritude.
I'm ending off with a
Rilke comment that was written in 1908, his fidelity framed for all to see and
learn from: "art is only a way of living, and it is possible, however one
lives, to prepare oneself for it without knowing, in every situation, we're
nearer to it; neighbours perhaps. Better to be nearby than any other
semi-artistic profession who like to use the term 'art' so loosely without
knowing fully about creativity's existence. Three quarters of suchlike passes
for literature." Mr. Kappus
pleased Rilke by choosing to live solitary, until love bites and then solitary
living is merely pipe dream. Still, solitary living still gifted Rilke a wife
and a child - never underestimate... wishful thinking; forever yours in
solitary confinement.
A must read for those
seeking themselves, preferably in a cosy log cabin outside Uppsala.
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