“Going into oneself and not meeting anyone for hours – that is where one must arrive at.” – Rainer Maria Rilke
A year ago or so, I read letters to a young poet by Rainer Maria Rilke for the first time. As someone who had only ventured into writing more profusely, with heedful words and chanced upon observations which were too difficult to put to words but the need got the best out of me. I remember sitting without a fan in my room in the torrid heatwaves of Delhi because the sound of the fan caused too much noise and I meant to stay with Rainer’s words with all my sincerity, might and lack of comprehension. Reading, comprehending words and being eloquent in my speech has never been my best pursuit, I started reading too late, and started reading the books I genuinely enjoy only recently, I do not regret the time I spent during my childhood and pre-teens being imaginative, entertaining myself with my own curated follies and vices, and spending time with the very few people I knew. Comprehension of words spoken by people and writers alike has always been difficult not because I didn’t know how to read or to understand the meaning of the words but to grasp the exact words and meaning seemed unnatural, distant because I did not know the experience or the events of life that led to the curation of those words. So as someone who scarcely read or understood what was spoken to them, I for the obvious reason lack eloquence in my speech.
In the very first letter, on page 3 of my copy of the book, I found myself being understood and bewildered at the same time as to how someone so distant, unknown to my being can articulate words that suit me so perfectly, curate sentences that I never could despite having experienced the same exact events and emotions? It made me feel rather incompetent. I had only this one thing in life that was my own – my words, and as it turned out I lacked in that very significant part of my life too. The quote in question is “things are not as graspable and sayable as on the whole we are led to believe; most events are unsayable, occur in a space that no word has ever penetrated, and most unsayable of all are works of art, mysterious existence whose life endures alongside ours, which passes away.” As I again read this, it confuses me and satiates me all at once. I have always tethered between elements, never experiencing or feeling the absolute nature of events and words. The quote does give me some understanding that not all we live can be documented in words, and it also makes me feel incredibly stupid as to why I couldn’t decipher this simple working of life and art, the very core of my being?
After finishing the book, I had many thoughts that were unsayable, so I let it be, I promised to come back to it some time in future and perhaps then I could say it. I wrote on the back of the book, like it was my diary and not a book, that perhaps the elements of the book that remained mysterious to me was because I was too inexperienced to truly grasp what Rainer wanted to convey, one such thing was solitude – I was never too alone to be in solitude, to relish in the act of solitary thinking and existing, and I never had too many companies to be an expert on life, which made me a poor judge of the book. A year later, I understand solitude because I have experienced it, and I had an epiphany that I am very childlike, I need things to be apparent, I need to know and witness the existence of all elements of life – feelings and events, for me to understand and comprehend certain words and sentences I read in books or hear in films. A year later I found myself in solitude, with no hindrances from others or life itself, I would sit in the garden on a bench, watch the birds – magpies and black kites, tons of pigeons and camouflaged parrots, I would sneak into places I wasn't allowed in, at times I sat on the bench being very still, no music or books, I would exist in stillness among the gushes of wind and the sound leaves make when chanced upon a high speed wind, I would listen to the birds, trying to identify their sounds, but there would be a magpie in there mimicking others, confusing me still. I found solitude to be nice, not entirely lonesome. I felt more myself when I was still among trees and birds than when I was with people – familiar and strangers alike. I am so loud among my family and friends, always chatting away words, and I am so quiet among my acquaintances, but exactly myself in my solitude.
When Rainer said “If your everyday life seems to lack material, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to summon up the riches…” I thought I needed more of life to happen to me, more adventures perhaps, more something, anything really, I tried to put myself out there for people to pick on, I found them so dull and lacking in being authentic, they seemed to fabricate identities but they did not have the artistry to be believable or even admirable, and so I would feel rather drained and robbed off my own curations and artistry. The thing about authenticity is that it hardly exists, when every element of life seems to be decided for, when we have inculcated influences into our existence to become something or someone, willingly or unwillingly, it seems futile work to search for honesty or even to find one's own identity. People believe what they see to be fashionable, they try to morph themselves into a fancier version that is highly pushed by the media they consume. One only has to be told that something is art or beautiful or admirable for one to believe in it. It’s all narrative, it’s all influence, it’s all someone else’s belief that we keep on reiterating. As it turns out, I comprehended Rainer’s words wrongly, I did not need more life to happen or people, I only needed to exist in a space where I could summon up riches or demons alike.
I have always found insignificance in everything, others life and words, mine as well, mine more than others, what exactly is so important about a stranger’s life or words ? but Rainer says “no experience is too slight” and I agree but still with apprehension, because things are only significant to people because they know it to be true, when written or crafted into art, it ceases to belong to the person who held it to such degree of seriousness and it starts to belong to the people who read it or see it and interpret it to their understanding. There is a difference between knowing and understanding, and that difference creates the height of significance. My words are important to me because it is a reaction of what I have endured and enjoyed, others merely would try to understand the meaning of with accordance to their experience and knowledge, therefore they will never truly know what I meant, unless you are a good writer or even a decent one who writes with precision for others to know the intricacies and happenings of one's world, but I do not consider myself as such.
My only loss from this collection of letters is the loss that comes with translations. What exactly did I lose when I couldn't read the text in the language it was originally written in, in the exact words of the author? It was still incredible, more holy than a gospel, but how devastating it is to not understand the exact words/language of my favorite author. I only hope, each year when I read the letters again like I am receiving them for the first time with my newfound understanding of life and art, which would evolve later for certain, I write a letter like Rainer would actually read it.
This was authored by Sufia siddiqui who is pursuing her Bachelor's degree in English from Jamia Millia Islamia
Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this Publication are those of the author. They do not purport to reflect the opinions or views of The Jamia Review or its members.
