Poems are not . . . simply emotions . . . they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and things . . . and know the gestures which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you have long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained . . .; to childhood illnesses . . . to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel . . . and it is still not enough.
— The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
“…and it is still not enough,” I love Rilke! Found the only novel he wrote at my local used bookstore- Silver Spring Books,today. I yelped in glee when I looked up and saw it!