no matter how widely it draws its orbit through the heavens, its milky way with billions of the blood's stars, the land beneath these heavens is pregnant with calamities.
Artists, do not believe that your test lies in the work. You are not what you pretend to be, and what this or that one, not knowing any better, may take you for, until the work has become your very nature to such an extent that you cannot do otherwise than prove yourself in it. Working thus, you are the masterly thrown spear: (skip) what could be more certain than your flight?
Your test, however, is that you are not always thrown. (skip) that She forgets you. This is the time of temptation, when you fell unused, incapable. (skip) Then, when you do not lie there very heavily, diversions exercise you and try to see to what other uses you can be put. As a blind man's staff, as one of the rods in a grating, or as the balancing pole of a tight-rope walker. Or else they are capable of planting you in the soil of fate, for the mireacle of seasons to happen to you and for you perhaps to sprout small green leaves of happiness...
O then, bronze one: lie heavy.
Be spear. Be spear. Be spear!
(skip) It is the passion for the while. Its result: equanimity and equilibrium of the totality.
We, however, who stand at the incomprehensible point of intersection of so many different and contradictory worlds, find ourselves in the situation of suddenly being assaulted by a heaviness that has no connection with our abilities and training: an alien heaviness. (skip)
I believe therefore that, already as a child, I never prayed for anything but my heaviness, in order for that to befall me which is my own and not, by mistake, the joiner's or the hack driver's or the soldier's, because I want to recognize myself in my heaviest.
My aloneness, this most peculiar characteristic of my existence:
The displeasure of the unaccomplished now also attacks my body like rust; even sleep refuses its balm - : into half-wakefulness my pulse beats against my temples like heavy steps that cannot find peace.
(skip) that I don't belong to those who can be consoled by love.
By one evening, I could bear it no longer. The protective, ever-giving quiet of the house and my horrible exposure at its center, threw such discord into my heart that I thought I could not go on living. Unable to read, and not even capable of gazing into the usually so consoling fire of the pine logs, I fetched some random folders from the shelves of the bookcase, whic I had never opened before, and forced myself to turn page after page. (skip) Where to? Where to?
Where to, toward freedom? Where to, toward the equanimity of true existence? Where to, toward innocence, towards the no longer dispensable?
I am surprised by something like the prescient shimmer of a new spiritual joy: (skip) that inside me light and darkness must not be determined by the overriding influence of one person, but only by something nameless. (skip) Behind my self.
After six years of destruction and obstruction I have not made use of the circumstances that were offered me with B... for the undeferrable inner task; fate has wrung it from my hands. I have to admit that to myself.
(skip) it is not in its own constellation, it is not the heart of my life.
(skip) So that they not use me up for their happiness, but stand by me to help me unfold that deepest, loneliest happiness in me, without whose Great Proofs they would, in the end never have loved me.
- 릴케가 1921년 'Das Testament'라는 제목으로 모아 편집자에게 건넨 노트와 편지의 부분들은 그의 사후 50년이 되기까지는 공개되지 않은 채로 있었다. 이 'Testament 유서'라는 제목이 붙여진 단편적인 글들은 작가 혹은 예술가로서의 고뇌와 좌절, 간간히 느낄 수 있는 희열, 소명 등의 솔직한 생각과 감정들이 릴케 특유의 아름다운 문장으로 드러난다.
'창 spear'으로서의 예술가의 삶이, 때로는 다른 목적으로 사용되거나 오해되더라도, 그 과녁을 향한 비행 자체에 그 기쁨과 목적이 있음을... 무겁게 땅바닥에 누워있더라도 그 창으로써의 운명적인 비행을 기다리는 작가의 마음이, 삶의 유희와 안정을 등지고 고독을 택할 수 밖에 없는 운명적 작가의 삶이 가슴 시리게 느껴지는 애달픈 글.
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