Paris, 17 February 1903
Dear Sir,
…
You ask whether your verses are good. You ask me that. You have asked others, before. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you worry when certain editors turn your efforts down. Now (since you have allowed me to offer you advice) let me ask you to give up all that. You are looking to the outside, and that above all you should not be doing now. Nobody can advise you and help you, nobody. There is only one way. Go into yourself. Examine the reason that bids you to write; check whether it reaches its roots into the deepest region of your heart, admit to yourself whether you will die if it should be denied you to write. This above all: ask yourself in your night’s quietest hour: must I write? Dig down into yourself for a deep answer. And if it should be affirmative, if it is given to you to respond to this serious question with a loud and simple ‘I must‘, then construct your life according to this necessity; your life right into its most inconsequential and slightest hour must be a sign and witness of this urge. Then approach nature. Then try, like the first human being, to say what you see and experience and love and lose.
…
Letters to a Young Poet (Rainer Marin Rilke)
