致一位青年詩人的信Letters to a Young Poet(3)

Viareggio, near Pisa (Italy)

April 23, 1903

You gave me much pleasure, dear Sir, with your Easter letter; for it brought much good news of you, and the way you spoke about Jacobsen's great and beloved art showed me that I was not wrong to guide your fife and its many questions to this abundance.

Now Niels Lyhne will open to you, a book of splendors and depths; the more often one reads it, the more everything seems to be contained within it, from life's most imperceptible fragrances to the full, enormous taste of its heaviest fruits. In it there is nothing that does not seem to have been understood, held, lived, and known in memory's wavering echo; no experience has been too unimportant, and the smallest event unfolds like a fate, and fate itself is like a wonderful, wide fabric in which every thread is guided by an infinitely tender hand and laid alongside another thread and is held and supported by a hundred others. You will experience the great happiness of reading this book for the first time, and will move through its numberless surprises as if you were in a new I can tell you that even later on one moves through these books, again and again, with the same astonishment and that they lose none of their wonderful power and relinquish none of the overwhelming enchantment that they had the first time one read them.

One just comes to enjoy them more and more, becomes more and more grateful, and somehow better and simpler in one's vision, deeper in one's faith in life, happier and greater in the way one lives.

And later on, you will have to read the wonderful book of the fate and yearning of Marie Grubbe, and Jacobsen's letters and journals and fragments, and finally his verses which (even if they are just moderately well translated) live in infinite sound. (For this reason I would advise you to buy, when you can, the lovely Complete Edition of Jacobsen's works, which contains all of these. It is in three volumes, well translated, published by Eugen Diederichs in Leipzig, and costs, I think, only five or six marks per volume.)

In your opinion of "Roses should have been here . . ." (that work of such incomparable delicacy and form) you are of course quite, quite incontestably right, as against the man who wrote the introduction. But let me make this request right away: Read as little as possible of literary criticism. Such things are either partisan opinions, which have become petrified and meaningless, hardened and empty of life, or else they are clever word-games, in which one view wins , and tomorrow the opposite view. Works of art are of an infinite solitude, and no means of approach is so useless as criticism. Only love can touch and hold them and be fair to them. Always trust yourself and your own feeling, as opposed to argumentation, discussions, or introductions of that sort; if it turns out that you are wrong, then the natural growth of your inner life will eventually guide you to other insights. Allow your judgments their own silent, undisturbed development, which, like all progress, must come from deep within and cannot be forced or hastened. Everything is gestation and then birthing. To let each impression and each embryo of a feeling come to completion, entirely in itself, in the dark, in the unsayable, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one's own understanding, and with deep humility and patience to wait for the hour when a new clarity is born: this alone is what it means to live as an artist: in understanding as in creating.

In this there is no measuring with time, a year doesn’t matter, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn’t force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast. I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything!

Richard Dehmel: My experience with his books (and also, incidentally, with the man, whom I know slightly) is that whenever I have discovered one of his beautiful pages, I am. always afraid that the next one will destroy the whole effect and change what is admirable into something unworthy. You have characterized him quite well with the phrase: "living and writing in heat." And in fact the artist's experience lies so unbelievably close to the sexual, to its pain and its pleasure, that the two phenomena are really just different forms of one and the same longing and bliss. And if instead of "heat" one could say "sex";- sex in the great, pure sense of the word, free of any sin attached to it by the Church, - then his art would be very great and infinitely important. His poetic power is great and as strong as a primal instinct; it has its own relentless rhythms in itself and explodes from him like a volcano.

But this power does not always seem completely straightforward and without pose. (But that is one of the most difficult tests for the creator: he must always remain unconscious, unaware of his best virtues, if he doesn't want to rob them of their candor and innocence!) And then, when, thundering through his being, it arrives at the sexual, it finds someone who is not so pure as it needs him to be. Instead of a completely ripe and pure world of sexuality, it finds a. world that is not human enough, that is only male, is heat, thunder, and restlessness, and burdened with the old prejudice and arrogance with which the male has always disfigured and burdened love. Because he loves only as a male, and not as a human being, there is something narrow in his sexual feeling, something that seems wild, malicious, time-bound, uneternal, which diminishes his art and makes it ambiguous and doubtful. It is not immaculate, it is marked by time and by passion, and little of it will endure. (But most art is like that!) Even so, one can deeply enjoy what is great in it, only one must not get lost in it and become a hanger-on of Dehmel's world, which is so infinitely afraid, filled with adultery and confusion, and is far from the real fates, which make one suffer more than these time-bound afflictions do, but also give one more opportunity for greatness and more courage for eternity.

Finally, as to my own books, I wish I could send you any of them that might give you pleasure. But I am very poor, and my books, as soon as they are published, no longer belong to me. I can’t even afford them myself and, as I would so often like to, give them to those who would be kind to them.

So I am writing for you, on another slip of paper, the titles (and publishers) of my most recent books (the newest ones - all together I published perhaps 12 or 13), and must leave to you, dear Sir, to order one or two of them when you can.

I am glad that my books will be in your hands.

With best wishes,

Yours,

Rainer Maria Rilke

親愛的先生：

您復活節的來信給我帶來了許多快樂，它帶來了您的不少好消息，還有您談論傑克布森的偉大和受人愛戴的藝術時的方式。您讓我覺得自己在指導您的生活和幫助您解決生活裏的許多問題時沒有出錯。

現在，《尼爾斯.林妮》將展開在您面前，一本傑出的、內涵豐富的書；讀的次數越多，您越會發現它包容萬象，從體味最無法理解的生活的芬芳到品嚐其豐碩飽滿的果實。在它裏面沒有什麼是不可以在迴盪的記憶濤聲中得到理解、把握、存活和感知的；沒有什麼經驗不是重要的，最微小的事件就象命運本身一樣，將漸漸展露開來，而命運自己就象一個奇妙的寬闊的纖維，組成它的每根絲都被一隻無限的、溫柔的手牽引着，這絲和其它的絲一起並排着，並由幾百根其它的絲把握和支撐着。剛讀這書的時候，您就能感到巨大的喜悅，書中無數令您驚異的地方使您感覺置身於一個新的夢裏。但是我告訴您真正奇妙的事吧：即使以後您再翻開這些書，一遍又一遍地，您仍會帶着和初次讀它時一樣的驚奇，它不會喪失那神奇的力量，也不會散失一點讓人無法抵抗的魅力。

您會越來越快樂，越來越感激，在意念裏會莫名其妙地變得更好、更簡單，而生活的信念會更深刻，生活的方式會更快樂和更親密。

之後，您將不得不讀這本描寫瑪利亞.閣魯彼的命運和期望的奇書，還有傑克布森的信和日記及未完成的作品，當然最後是他的詩（即使譯文一般），那詩讀後餘音嫋嫋。（爲此，我建議您在手頭不緊張的時候去買來，一套很棒的傑克布森作品全集包括上述所有的內容，共三本，譯得很好，由利浦茲的尤根-埃得瑞契出版社出版，還有價格，我想，每本只有5到6馬克吧。） 您對"玫瑰早就該在這兒……"（作品具有如此獨一無二的優美和形式）的建議當然是對極了，無可爭議，您的見解幾乎和寫了詩文介紹的那人一樣。但是請允許我在此提個要求：儘可能地少讀文學評論--這種東西不是一些混亂的沒有意義的偏見，就是一些聰明的文字遊戲，今天捧場，明天棒殺。藝術作品是一種無止境的孤獨，對它來說，任何評論都無足輕重。只有愛才能觸及和把握他們，纔對它們公平。信任您自己和您自己的感覺吧，如同您反對爭論、探討或這類的介紹一樣；如果您的感覺錯了，那麼您內在的自然成長會繼續指引您找到真知卓見。允許您的判斷沉默地、不受打擾地成長吧。這個過程，就象所有的過程一樣，必須發自內心，是不能強迫和匆忙的。每一樣東西都必須在妊娠之後才能誕生。讓每一個感想每一種感覺的胚胎自然生長，在黑暗之中，在無法言喻、無意識的、難以理解的地方，帶着淳樸的人性和耐心等候那一時刻的來臨。一個新的明確的概念將產生。而這種孤獨就是一個藝術家的生活，總在理解和創造中。

對此，沒有時間可以用來衡量。一年不算什麼，十年也不算什麼。做一名藝術家就意味着不要計數和計算，只象一棵樹一樣等待成熟。樹不會強迫自己流出汁液，它自信地站在春天的暴風雨裏，不擔心隨後的夏天是否會來臨，而夏天終究會來臨的。但它只向那些耐心的人走來，向那些似乎永恆地在前邊等待的人，它既冷冷地又熾烈地。在我的生活中，我每一天都能感受到它，帶着痛感受着它，我爲此感到喜悅：耐心就是一切！

裏查德.德梅爾：我讀過他的書（也是偶然的。對這個人，我所知甚少），每次讀到他書裏的優美篇章時，我忍不住就擔心下一頁文字會破壞已有的氣氛，或讓那些令人仰慕的東西變得一錢不值。您對他的個性總結得非常好："在激情裏活着和寫作。"--事實上這個藝術家的經驗幾乎是基於性、性的痛苦和歡樂這兩種經驗之上，這兩種經驗形式不同，實際上是一種東西，都有着熱望和極樂。

如果人們可以用"性"來替換"熱情"--性是偉大純潔的感知，同教堂相連的時候沒有一點罪惡--他的藝術將是極其偉大和無比重要的。他的詩的力量是偉大的，象本能一樣強烈；它有自己不屈不撓的韻律，爆發時如同火山。

但這種力量並不是總能得以痛快淋漓地渲泄。（當然那也是對創作者的最艱難的考驗：他必須總是保持無意識，不能參透自己最優秀的品質，如果他不想掠奪它們的坦白和純真的話！）然後，當雷電穿過他的身體，產生性慾，它發現有些人並不如希望的那樣純潔。它沒有找到一個完整的、成熟而純潔的性的世界，反而發現一個不夠人性的，僅是男性的世界，是熱情、驚雷和焦慮，負擔着古老的偏見和傲慢，這時愛變得醜惡，變成負擔。因爲赭石的男性所愛的只是一個"男性"，而不是一個人，在他的性感覺裏有一些狹隘的東西，有一些野蠻的、不軌的、受制於時間的和非永恆的東西，那些東西貶抑了他的藝術，使其顯得曖昧可疑。它不是潔淨的，它印着時間和激情的標記，不會永恆（但大多數藝術是這樣！）。即便如此，一個人能夠深深地愉悅其中，只是不要迷失了並在德梅爾的世界裏徘徊，那個世界是深淵，充滿姦情和困惑，同真正的命運相差十萬八千里，真正的命運要比這受時間約束的激情遭受得多得多，而且在人們追求永恆時給以更多的感恩機會和勇氣。

最後是我自己的書，我希望能夠送您一些，或許這將給您帶來快樂。但是我真的很窮，而且我的書，一旦出版，就不再屬於我了。甚至我自己也買不起--，儘管我經常想要把這些作品送給喜歡它們的人。

所以我在另一張紙上給您寫下我的大多數最近出版的書名（最新的--共有12或13本吧和出版商的名稱），親愛的先生，當您能夠買得起的時候就去買一或兩本看看吧。

我很高興自己的書將在您的手中。

最真摯的希望，

您的，

瑞那.瑪里亞.李爾克

意大利，比薩

1903年4月23日