We discover, indeed, that we do not know our part: we look for a mirror; we want to rub off the paint, to remove all that is artificial, and to become real. But somewhere a bit of masking that we forget still clings to us. A trace of exaggeration remains in our eyebrows; we do not notice that the corners of our lips are twisted. And thus we go about, a laughingstock, a mere half-thing: neither real beings nor actors.



  1. i want to remix letters to a young poet

  2. Ok, so at the risk of sounding naive or somehow sub-par, I've never heard of Rilke before now. I know it might seem odd, like I grew up under a rock or something. I didn't, seriously. I went to school for architecture though, and a professor of mine had a pretty good way of summing up architects as "Experts at nothing and novices at everything." It's true, and I'm not surprised that I've never heard of Rilke before. Everything is a lot to be a novice at. So what I am getting at, as a lover of much and an expert of nothing, is just a round about way of saying thanks for introducing me to this. So, "Thanks!"