On the evening of 12 April 1900
WHEN you return from deserts, long off alone,
enriched by your silence's weight,-
it may be that you'll know yourself well
and feel: I am a teacher of mankind.
Yet nothing corrupts so much as this:
to approach people as instructor.
You stand at the edge of their looks
and read their hidden hatred.-
And you interpret it to your advantage.
But you're lying: they despise you.
And ever since that lie crept up on you,
you've grown devoid of mastery,
and your house is just like the others.
Whoever would truly master people,
let him go far away from them, quietly,
and let his serenity be unvoiced;
for no one can penetrate the workings
of his own time. To every sage
its fate, its sorrow, is an enigma.
All he experienced is that force
from which the times, departing quietly,
make their way toward mankind.
And forever branded by this knowledge,
he may not ever grasp the others.
That's why to this very day
no word of any triumph has arrived:
no teacher has ever kept silent,
and no wisdom has ever been attained
by this wavering one, by shame.-
Thus we became dreamy violinists
who softly step out of their doors
to make sure, before they pray,
that no neighbor eavesdrops on them.
Who only, when all people have dispersed,
behind the last sounds of evening
play the songs behind which-
like woods in the wind behind fountains-
the dark violin-case murmurs.
For voices are only worth anything
when silences accompany them;
when behind the speech of the strings
rushings remain as if from blood;
and unendurable are those times when
behind all the vanities and strutting masks
there is no ruling force that rests.-
Patience: the gentle clock hand circles,
and what was promised will come about;
we are the whisperers before the silent one,
we are the meadows before the wood;
they still resonate with a dark humming,-
voices everywhere and yet no choir-
and they help prepare us for the mute, deep,
everpresent holy groves...
enriched by your silence's weight,-
it may be that you'll know yourself well
and feel: I am a teacher of mankind.
Yet nothing corrupts so much as this:
to approach people as instructor.
You stand at the edge of their looks
and read their hidden hatred.-
And you interpret it to your advantage.
But you're lying: they despise you.
And ever since that lie crept up on you,
you've grown devoid of mastery,
and your house is just like the others.
Whoever would truly master people,
let him go far away from them, quietly,
and let his serenity be unvoiced;
for no one can penetrate the workings
of his own time. To every sage
its fate, its sorrow, is an enigma.
All he experienced is that force
from which the times, departing quietly,
make their way toward mankind.
And forever branded by this knowledge,
he may not ever grasp the others.
That's why to this very day
no word of any triumph has arrived:
no teacher has ever kept silent,
and no wisdom has ever been attained
by this wavering one, by shame.-
Thus we became dreamy violinists
who softly step out of their doors
to make sure, before they pray,
that no neighbor eavesdrops on them.
Who only, when all people have dispersed,
behind the last sounds of evening
play the songs behind which-
like woods in the wind behind fountains-
the dark violin-case murmurs.
For voices are only worth anything
when silences accompany them;
when behind the speech of the strings
rushings remain as if from blood;
and unendurable are those times when
behind all the vanities and strutting masks
there is no ruling force that rests.-
Patience: the gentle clock hand circles,
and what was promised will come about;
we are the whisperers before the silent one,
we are the meadows before the wood;
they still resonate with a dark humming,-
voices everywhere and yet no choir-
and they help prepare us for the mute, deep,
everpresent holy groves...
On the same evening
AND if sometime you have to teach-
because you have a child, one who sits waiting,
or because in the evening a guest,
one dark with grime,
walks up to the edge of your lamp,
or because your stride
falters once
and you have to stay until daybreak
among strangers,
or because a friend from times past, one who feels
the long-ago friendship tottering,
implores you
to write him sometime soon-
that's when you'd better whisper to yourself
what "teaching" means:
with words that are at your call
to say: I am.
And then furthermore
what teaching doesn't mean: to lecture
every man on the tumble of times,
on the how and wherefore of their succesion;
teaching means: to ask of each person
what he feels closest to in silence...
(Excerpt from Diaries of a young poet by Rainer Maria Rilke, Translated by Edward Snow & Michael Winkler. Published by W. W. Norton & Company, 1998)
because you have a child, one who sits waiting,
or because in the evening a guest,
one dark with grime,
walks up to the edge of your lamp,
or because your stride
falters once
and you have to stay until daybreak
among strangers,
or because a friend from times past, one who feels
the long-ago friendship tottering,
implores you
to write him sometime soon-
that's when you'd better whisper to yourself
what "teaching" means:
with words that are at your call
to say: I am.
And then furthermore
what teaching doesn't mean: to lecture
every man on the tumble of times,
on the how and wherefore of their succesion;
teaching means: to ask of each person
what he feels closest to in silence...
(Excerpt from Diaries of a young poet by Rainer Maria Rilke, Translated by Edward Snow & Michael Winkler. Published by W. W. Norton & Company, 1998)
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