/lit/ - Literature

I’m gonna need you to go ahead and truthbomb me on Rilke.

Hard mode: you have to have actually read him

Who is else is on his level?

Der Panther

Sein Blick est vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.

Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
sich lautlos auf - . Dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille -
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.

(Rilke)

„Im hellen Spiegel der geklärten Fluten
Sehr wir die tote Zeit sich fremd beleben
Und unsre Leidenschaften im Verbluten,
Zu ferner’n Himmeln unsre Seelen heben.
Wir gehen durch die Tode neugestaltet
Zu tiefen Foltern ein und tiefern Wonnen,
Darin die unbekannte Gottheit waltet –
Und uns vollenden ewig neue Sonnen.

Trakl

Mensch! Gib Acht!
Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht?
»Ich schlief, ich schlief –,
Aus tiefem Traum bin ich erwacht: –
Die Welt ist tief,
Und tiefer als der Tag gedacht.
Tief ist ihr Weh –,
Lust – tiefer noch als Herzeleid:
Weh spricht: Vergeh!
Doch alle Lust will Ewigkeit –,
– will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit!«

Nietzsche

They all have tired mouths
And luminous, illimitable souls;
And a longing (as if for sin)
Trembles at times through their dreams.

They all resemble one another,
In God's garden they are silent
Like many, many intervals
In His mighty melody.

But when they spread their wings
They awaken the winds
That stir as though God
With His far-reaching master hands
Turned the pages of the dark book of Beginning.

>My favorite poet is Rilke
Who do you imagine?

>>16712211
meant for >>16712205

where do i start

Ich fürchte mich so vor der Menschen Wort.
Sie sprechen alles so deutlich aus.
Und dieses heißt Hund und jenes heißt Haus,
und hier ist der Beginn und das Ende ist dort.

Mich bangt auch ihr Sinn, ihr Spiel mit dem Spott,
sie wissen alles, was wird und war;
kein Berg ist ihnen mehr wunderbar;
ihr Garten und Gut grenzt grade an Gott.

Ich will immer warnen und wehren: Bleibt fern.
Die Dinge singen hör ich so gern.
Ihr rührt sie an: sie sind starr und stumm.
Ihr bringt mir alle die Dinge um

*****************************
***English Translation****
*****************************

I fear so deeply the words of mankind.
They utter them all with so certain a sound:
and this we call house and that we call hound,
and here is before, and there is behind.

I fear too their thinking, their mocking disdain.
They know the whole past, all things that will be.
For them, no mountain is wondrous to see;
their properties border on God’s own domain.

Pay heed to my warning: now make your retreat.
The singing of things, not words, is what’s sweet.
Your words make things mute, so rigid and gray,
killing them, draining their beauty away
It's become somewhat of a mantra for myself and how I approach human interaction

Read Rainer Maria Rilke.1

I don’t get Duino Elegies. Am I a brainlet or is it just some mystical mumbo jumbo?

>>12387822
The Panther

Thoughts on Rainer Maria Rilke?

I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I hear the far-off fields say things
I can't bear without a friend,
I can't love without a sister.

The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
across the woods and across time,
and the world looks as if it had no age:
the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,
is seriousness and weight and eternity.

What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights with us is so great.
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things do by some immense storm,
we would become strong too, and not need names.

When we win it's with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestlers' sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.

What does /lit/ think about him

Tell me your fav poets.
I've been Rilke recently and its very comfy.

Alright my mates,

We are planning a lit podcast given the relative lack of them and the demand presented. We have two hosts so far, myself and another memer, and we are looking for other folks. Feel free to join and talk with us.

tinychat / 4chanlit

If anyone is bored tonight because they have no friends - join our tinychat / 4chanlit

talk about books and shit

>>8311509

>>8229228
>unironically photocopies shit

Alright everyone, show off your poetry collection and gives recs, talk about favorite poets, and just chill in general.

I want to get into Rilke. Where do I start? Give me a heads up on the best translations, please.

>>6638612
my boy rilke

>>5838824