A friend who just met me but I think he knows me better than I know myself gave me this book by Rainer Maria Rilke: Letters to a Young Poet. It’s one of those books where the words on the page just resonate so much it’s almost painful to read, like playing that one song that kills you every time.
I have much to learn from this quote in particular. Enjoy.
Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing so little to be reached as with critcism. Only love can grasp and hold and be just toward them. Consider yourself and your feeling right every time with regard to such argumentation, discussion or introduction; if you are wrong after all, the natural growth of your inner life will lead you slowly and with time to other insights. Leave to your opinions their own quiet undisturbed development, which, like all progress, must come from deep within and cannot be pressed or hurried by anything. Everything is gestation and then bringing forth. To let each impression and each germ of a feeling come to completion wholly in itself, in the dark, in the inexpressible, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one’s own intelligence, and await with deep humility and patience the birth-hour of a new clarity: that alone is living the artist’s life: in understanding as in creating.
There is no measuring with time, no year matters, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confident in the storms of spring without the fear that after them may come no summer. It does come. But it comes only to the patient, who are there as though eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly still and wide. I learn it daily, learn it with pain to which I am grateful: patience is everything!