On Nodding Terms
Rainer Maria Rilke may have seen something of his own young self when he responded to a letter from an aspiring young poet. We would do well to be as kind to who we used to be.
By Whitney Rio-Ross
In 1902, a nineteen-year-old military student named Franz Xaver Kappus was reading a collection by the up-and-coming poet Rainer Maria Rilke. The school’s chaplain took the book from him to examine the cover and informed him that Rilke had been one of the students in the Lower Military School where he had previously been chaplain. This connection gave Kappus the gumption to send Rilke a few of his poems and a surprisingly personal letter asking for Rilke’s commentary and advice.
Decades later, Kappus published ten of eleven letters Rilke sent him during the years of their correspondence. He titled it Letters to a Young Poet. Nearly a century later, millions of readers—ranging from teens to seniors, poets to pharmacists—still turn to these letters for wisdom on art or life in general. Some read and speak of it as a devotional text, not what Rilke intended when sending each letter, but clearly how Kappus read them.
I thank God that I was never a young poet, at least not as young as Kappus was when he began his correspondence with Rilke. I didn’t begin writing poems in earnest until my mid-twenties. I majored in creative writing for my entire first week of college. I don’t know what possessed me to check that box on my application, but by the time I met with my advisor in late August, I had reclaimed my sanity and switched to English literature.
There are and have been many brilliant poets under the age of twenty; I have even had the pleasure of knowing and publishing some. I would not have been such a poet. I shudder to imagine what I would have written as a teenager at my Evangelical college. As a public-school kid thrown into a world of Christianese and feeling pressured to perform my faith in a new way, I assume that I would have sacrificed craft (of which I already knew nothing) for watery theology, bloating lines into three-point sermons. One thing I know is that unlike Kappus, I wouldn’t have approached a famous poet with my poems, even in the form of a letter. My general nervousness about introducing myself to a stranger—in person or on paper—would have saved me that possible embarrassment.
Still, as much as envisioning myself in his position makes me cringe, I admire Kappus’ audacity. I and so many other readers are grateful for the courage that brought about these letters.
One of the most remarkable things about the letters that comprise Letters to a Young Poet is their mere existence.
One of the most remarkable things about the letters that comprise Letters to a Young Poet is their mere existence. Like any well-known writer, Rilke received plenty of fan mail. Additionally, although he was known for responding to most of his young fans, biographers and fellow writers say that Rilke was generally a jerk. (This should surprise no poets.)
And yet Rilke responded to this fawning teenager’s letters for multiple years. Moreover, he responded to them at length, addressing the particulars of Kappus’ life and diving into philosophical musings with the respect and thoughtfulness we might only expect in letters to close friends. He corresponded with many friends and artists; that he made time for Kappus between poems and other correspondence is quite remarkable.
A new edition appeared in 2020 after the miraculous discovery of Kappus’ letters among the Rilke family’s possessions. No one, including Kappus, imagined that Rilke would have kept the letters. The new edition includes these letters collected at the end. I’m confident that plenty of Rilke scholars and poetry students will enjoy this version. (Kamran Javadizadeh has already written a beautiful essay about its positive aspects in The New Yorker.) But I’m also sure that the original version will stay at the forefront. The words resonate with some readers so intensely that the letters may as well have been addressed to them in the first place. Readers will still chiefly ask, “What does Rilke have to offer me in these letters?” Kappus wouldn’t mind this attitude; it’s exactly what he hoped to capture by printing them.
Like many people I know, I’d often rather not be associated with my old self and sometimes actively attempt to distance myself from her.
My husband has a laminated, spiral-bound book of poems that he wrote for a high school English project. I treasure this adolescent artifact. I love seeing what has changed and what has endured from his younger self. He still loves the rain but doesn’t force it into every metaphor. He no longer borrows from Dostoevsky so transparently, though Raskolnikov still appears in our conversations on a weekly basis. Because he arranged the poems in the order in which he wrote them, it is like reading a philosophical and artistic coming-of-age tale, by turns lovely and hilarious. Reading those poems has been a way of learning a version of him I never met. Plus, few things are as entertaining as a teenage virgin’s poems about sex.
As much as I enjoy that book of high school poems, I’m confident that I would have shredded pages of my own adolescent poetry, had they existed. Like many people I know, I’d often rather not be associated with my old self and sometimes actively attempt to distance myself from her. Though there are a few tactics for doing so, my usual strategy is laughing at who I once was. Because I am embarrassed by nineteen-year-old me, I ridicule her. I’m a bully to myself, laughing loudest at the things of which I am most ashamed. If I mockingly point my finger at her, then hopefully no one will recognize her as me. It’s fine to laugh at our younger selves sometimes, but it shouldn’t be our sole way of engaging with them.
Kappus wasn’t a young Rilke. Based on Rilke’s and Kappus’ similar military education and their shared loneliness both in and outside of that setting, though, Rilke had to have seen some reflection of himself in this young poet seeking advice and encouragement. Rilke’s poetry had already garnered praise at Kappus’ age, but he could resonate with the young man’s sorrows and how unsuitable his environment was for becoming a great poet. Perhaps this is why he answered the first letter with the harsh advice that if one “feels one could live without writing, then one shouldn’t write at all.” (A poet’s note: Though I sympathize with this advice to a degree, I strongly discourage following it; writers will at some point feel the exact opposite of this sentiment. A passing feeling or mere exhaustion or lack of Rilke’s general intensity should not cause a poet to abandon their craft altogether.)
In the first letter, Rilke also refuses to give specific comments on the poems Kappus sent him and writes, “You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now.”1 He discourages Kappus from seeking validation from magazines and other poets and advises that he instead focus on the young man writing the poems. Surely Rilke needed to hear this at some point. Even if Kappus insisted on becoming a poet, this advice could save him some heartache. As we see throughout the letters, Rilke wanted to help Kappus grow through the pains that surely awaited a young man like himself.
I would answer a letter from someone who reminded me of my younger self, though it would cause me discomfort to catch certain angles of my reflection. I’d probably be harsh regarding the parts of her that mirrored my worst qualities or regrettable phases, but I would stop short of mocking a young stranger. I hope that, like Rilke, I could write both bluntly and compassionately. I hope that even if my correspondent made me cringe with recognition, at least the time and distance built into the nature of pen-and-paper correspondence could afford me self-reflection and mercy that a face-to-face encounter would lack.
In her essay “On Keeping a Notebook,” Joan Didion says, “I think we are well-advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.” Writing letters to those who remind us of ourselves is a challenge to go beyond mere acknowledgment of who we were to meaningful engagement with them—let them amuse us, grieve us, surprise us, perhaps even help us.
Rilke’s advice on solitude consistently paints it as a strange gift, both personally and artistically.
Letters to a Young Poet covers an impressive number of topics: poetry, love, sadness, sex, God, gender roles, and time. The constantly recurring topic is solitude. Kappus felt an acute loneliness during the years of their correspondence, both while among his family and while serving in an isolated location. Rilke resonated with this internal solitude. He knew the pain it could bring and moreover that Kappus needed to accept his solitary condition. “It becomes clearer and clearer that fundamentally this is nothing that one can choose or refrain from,” he explained. “We are solitary.”
It’s a bleak (though true) statement, but Rilke’s advice on solitude consistently paints it as a strange gift, both personally and artistically. In letter after letter, Rilke reminded Kappus that this solitude provided him with an opportunity to reflect and grow. Yet Rilke didn’t want Kappus to feel guilty for wanting his loneliness to subside, writing, “And you should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is something in you that wants to move out of it.” He repeatedly acknowledged its difficulty over the course of their correspondence. Rilke knew that the loneliness that accompanied Kappus’ solitude would often feel like a curse.
These sections on solitude and loneliness offer a universal appeal and explain why even those with no interest in literature have drawn strength from these letters. I dare anyone to read all ten and not feel like at least one paragraph were addressed to them personally. At the end of one letter Rilke added an even more personal note to remind Kappus that all of this advice was coming from a person who was still living amidst the pains at that letter’s center. In that letter, Rilke’s usual tone of cool confidence transformed into a vulnerable confession. He wrote,
And if there is one more thing that I must say to you, it is this: Don’t think that the person who is trying to comfort you now lives untroubled among the simple and quiet words that sometimes give you pleasure. His life has much trouble and sadness, and remains far behind yours. If it were otherwise, he would never have been able to find those words.
I certainly take comfort in this section not only as someone who has suffered but also as a poet. Though his feeling of solitude began in his youth, Rilke became more and more reclusive over time. He also became a better and better poet. Rilke’s fondness of solitude and all of its gifts, matched with the success that apparently came from it, is a scary prospect for a poet. If solitude is necessary for a rich inner life that leads to great poetry, shouldn’t I revel in a lonely depression? Rilke says no—but grab a pen.
Yes, my poems came from a painful solitude, but my inner world was brought back to life by others’ voices. I could not sing without them.
The spring I began writing poems, I took up a strange practice for Lent. I had spent over a year gradually losing myself to a neurological defect and all the drugs that aimed to make me a little less crazy. I struggled to remember my own personality, my passions, my past. For once, I wanted the gift of facing my former self. I was already inhabiting the season of self-denial and death. So when I found a box filled with cards and letters friends had sent me over the years, I decided to read a few each day until Easter. I know it sounds self-obsessed, but all fasts include some navel-gazing.
I read those letters—some tender birthday notes, some written between the sobs of heartbreak, and a few moments of confrontation—and remembered parts of my narrative, or at least shadows of those parts. In the context of so many words addressed to me, I saw the person I had been. She was in turns steadfast and unforgiving, arrogant and gracious. According to friends and a few strangers, she was lovable both for and despite her various qualities. And though she was sometimes lonely, she clearly wasn’t alone.
If I wanted to go full Rilke, I could say that those first poems arose from my solitude. This is partially true. There were moments when I took his advice to “love your own solitude and try to sing out with the pain it causes you.” But those letters also stirred something in me.
Rilke told Kappus, “What is happening in your innermost self is worthy of your entire love.” This proverb, both in and out of context, could launch a thousand questions: What of God? What of others? What is the “happening” in this innermost self? What exactly can the innermost self contain? I’ll let others debate Rilke’s meaning and its validity. When I read this statement, remembering that Lenten existential search, I remember that my innermost self was once a void. I needed my correspondents’ words to piece myself together. Yes, my poems came from a painful solitude, but my inner world was brought back to life by others’ voices. I could not sing without them.
Being an artist, like most important parts of life, is a difficult and ever-changing balancing act.
I am blissfully introverted and have become more so over time. Although I miss seeing particular people and feel lonely sometimes, overall, I am happy to spend most of my day working with my dog as a sole companion. I must make a conscious effort not to become overly reclusive.
One of the selfish incentives for not leaning too heavily into my solitude is that I need human contact to write well. Despite Rilke’s claims that my internal world should provide me with the inspiration I need, I haven’t found that world sufficiently expansive or interesting. My Lenten revelation has remained true for me—my innermost self cannot survive on its own. There must be communication.
I don’t believe this means that I am swapping my solitude for cheap companionship. Many of my companions are poets I’ve never met, the characters in novels or scripture, and theologians. They spark the best parts of my self-reflection. My conversations with friends in person or through correspondence also nourish me by exploring the topics in Letters to a Young Poet and sometimes even confronting our unglamorous pasts. The act of communication itself is also life-giving; listening to and trying to comfort a friend has fueled many of my poems.
The most consistent advice I hear from poets is that you must protect your time and solitude. These are certainly necessary for a poet, and they can be difficult to hold on to, hence the word “protect.” We should not, however, idolize these things; they are a form of idolizing ourselves. I agree with the poet Scott Cairns on this issue: “never privilege the making of a poem over attending to your partner, your children, any stranger who happens by.”2 Being an artist, like most important parts of life, is a difficult and ever-changing balancing act. In the final letter, Rilke tells Kappus, “Art too is just a way of living, and however one lives, one can, without knowing, prepare for it.” If a writer attempts to cut themselves off from the world in the name of poetry, they will not write any poetry worth sharing with the world—another act of two solitudes communicating.
Rilke loved his solitude in part because he knew the dangers of losing himself if too often in another’s presence. But for all his love of solitude, he knew the value of communicating with others. Letters were the perfect medium for him. Writing to a young poet who reminded him of himself was a perfect recipe for both communication and reflection on his past and present self. Rilke was also blessed by this correspondence.
In his second letter, Rilke claimed that “for ultimately and precisely in the deepest and most important matters, we are unspeakably alone; and many things must happen, many things must go right, a whole constellation of events must be fulfilled, for one human being to successfully advise or help another.” Rilke could only hope that the miraculous constellation might benefit Kappus in some way. Letters to a Young Poet is the result of a poet graciously setting aside a poem to help a stranger and simultaneously dare to face himself. We owe much thanks to Rilke for that kindness and to Mr. Kappus for sharing their solitude with all of us.
- This essay uses Stephen Mitchell’s translation of Letters to a Young Poet.
- The quote from Scott Cairns originally appeared in an interview in The Crossing.
Whitney Rio-Ross holds a Master’s in Religion and Literature from Yale Divinity School. Her writing has appeared in Sojourners, Reflections, America Magazine, LETTERS Journal, The Cresset, St. Katherine Review, The Other Journal, and elsewhere. She is the author of the poetry chapbook Birthmarks and lives in Nashville, Tennessee, with her husband