Thursday, November 3, 2011

“Ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night,” penned Rilke, “Must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if the answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple ‘I must,’ then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.”

That’s from the first letter in the book I’ve been reading. Eight letters later, with only two left in the hopper, I’m in the homestretch, but the last few pages are a doozy. In truth, only the passage above really stuck with me, and I’ve asked myself that very question in the past. I’ve also asked a corollary question: “Must I read?” And the answer to that one was most assuredly “I must not read.”

For the query proper, though, the answer has always been in the affirmative. But my reasons, as you may recall from our past discussions, have been far less noble than Rilke would’ve preferred. He spoke of writing almost as a sentient entity to which you may or may not declare lifelong fealty. I subscribe to a far more mercenary view of words, where I appreciate their results–their capacity to persuade, to mend, to entertain, to reshape, to break. If it turns out that Rilke’s been right all along, however, then I may be due for a reckoning.