Five years of correspondence (1903-1908) are preserved between Rainer Maria Rilke and a young poet who asked if his continued efforts as a poet would be worthwhile. Rilke’s reply, his opening letter, is most relevant to those of us who attempt to understand literature, write and teach poetry. All Rilke’s remaining letters flesh out a fuller wisdom about accepting all aspects of one’s life—happy and sad, mundane and dreaded. Rilke, sensate, consummately observant of even life’s littlest details, is also reverential—so respectful of what defines his own days, that he could be a Zen master or simply a reassuring cleric.
Here is the start of his “Letters to a Young Poet:”
Your letter arrived just a few days ago. I want to thank you for the great confidence you have placed in me. That is all I can do. I cannot discuss your verses; for any attempt at criticism would be foreign to me. Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism: they always result in more or less fortunate misunderstandings. Things aren’t all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsayable than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life. . . .
You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you — no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, 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 become a sign and witness to this impulse.
Of course, as a young writer, I didn’t understand or take Rilke’s advice, but loved his prose and poetry and studied his style. Of course, I endured the inevitable rejection and negativity of others. It took me time to understand how wise Rilke was. As a creative writing teacher, I decided it would be foolish, even counterproductive for me to actually grade my students. I gave them a rubric for self-evaluation, and allowed them to select their own final grade. These were the basic guidelines which I recommend you apply to yourself:
- Do all the assignments or present a reasonable argument and alternative for my assignments, and receive a grade of “B.”
- Why not an “A?” Because excellence is rarer and you certainly should do more than simply what is required.
- Anything less than what was required to demonstrate your sincerity and you should, honestly, not think you have done a good job. There is grade inflation and the notion that “You are all so wonderful.” Everyone makes the team and even expects a trophy. Have some dignity. You know if you have made a suitable effort. If you sluffed off, a “C” is at least acceptable.
- You, alone, know if you put your heart into your art. You know if you strive for excellence. What gift did you present yourself that earned you an “A?”
What Rilke coaches is that you do more, expect more or yourself. Don’t ignore life. Maximize it. All the accolades and publications aren’t the same as actually rising to real art. Art is for yourself. You may revise as required by a teacher or even to meet the standards of a particular venue. But art is not for all markets. Don’t whine if you aren’t understood or accepted by others. Create for yourself. Revise for others if you wish. Present your art with your heart on your sleeve.
Ugh! “Heart on your sleeve?” That is so clichéd as to be painful to even visualize. But if you re-read Rilke, you know what he means. Don’t look to me to interpret him. Rather, take his test. Write because you must—because you love yourself for writing.
A NOTE BY ALFRED CORN: A recent edition of Rilke’s Letters (Letters to a Young Poet: With the Letters to Rilke from the ”Young Poet.” Liverite Publishing Corp.) includes the letters of Franz Xaver Kappus, who initiated the correspondence. Poet and translator Alfred Corn comments, “Franz Xaver Kappus, was too young for us to expect that his letters would have anything substantial to say. The older poet’s generosity in replying to those letters becomes all the more notable when we read Kappus’s pages, which are about equally divided between self-pity, extravagant adoration of the Master, and timid requests for assistance in getting into print. Still, we should be glad that Kappus’s premature ambition prompted Rilke to respond in a series of letters that have been crucial to so many writers coming later.”