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Történetek a Jóistenről
Bibliai ihletésű legendákkal indul Rilke elbeszélés-sorozata: a világ teremtésével, a Golgota drámájával. Innen jut el az itáliai reneszánsz, a pravoszláv népélet megrendítő jeleneteiig, hogy záródarabjában saját jelene, a tizenkilencedik századvég légkörét idézze föl.
Kettős szál fűzi össze történeteit: a láthatatlan, s mindenütt jelenvaló Isten sugallata és az ösztönösen felé forduló, gyermeki ámulat.
Ezt a sugárzón tiszta tekintetet, a gyermekkorét, haláláig megőrizte a költő. Isten-élménye, teljes életművének sorsszerű meghatározójaként, újra meg újra visszakísért.
A „Történetek a Jóistenről” a fiatal Rilke vallomása. 1899 novemberében, oroszországi utazásából visszatérve, tíz nap alatt írta meg, alig huszonnégy évesen. (Közvetlenül előtte született másik korai remeke, a „Kornétás”.) A magáratalálás boldog lendületében teremtő képzelete és játékos elbeszélő kedve együtt jelenik meg ebben a könyvében. Meglepően új, derűsen fénylő színkeverésű mű, életigenlése soha többé nem ismétlődik meg későbbi pályáján.
Egy-egy felnőtt barátnak, ismerősnek mondja el meséit Rilke, azzal, hogy ők adják tovább a gyerekeknek. Érett és kezdő olvasóhoz éppúgy eltalálnak ezek a történetek, mert a megértő alázat hangján mindenkihez szólnak, a nagy irodalom törvénye szerint.
Kettős szál fűzi össze történeteit: a láthatatlan, s mindenütt jelenvaló Isten sugallata és az ösztönösen felé forduló, gyermeki ámulat.
Ezt a sugárzón tiszta tekintetet, a gyermekkorét, haláláig megőrizte a költő. Isten-élménye, teljes életművének sorsszerű meghatározójaként, újra meg újra visszakísért.
A „Történetek a Jóistenről” a fiatal Rilke vallomása. 1899 novemberében, oroszországi utazásából visszatérve, tíz nap alatt írta meg, alig huszonnégy évesen. (Közvetlenül előtte született másik korai remeke, a „Kornétás”.) A magáratalálás boldog lendületében teremtő képzelete és játékos elbeszélő kedve együtt jelenik meg ebben a könyvében. Meglepően új, derűsen fénylő színkeverésű mű, életigenlése soha többé nem ismétlődik meg későbbi pályáján.
Egy-egy felnőtt barátnak, ismerősnek mondja el meséit Rilke, azzal, hogy ők adják tovább a gyerekeknek. Érett és kezdő olvasóhoz éppúgy eltalálnak ezek a történetek, mert a megértő alázat hangján mindenkihez szólnak, a nagy irodalom törvénye szerint.
110 pages
First published January 1, 1900
136 people are currently reading
2619 people want to read
About the author
Rainer Maria Rilke
1,818 books6,881 followersA mystic lyricism and precise imagery often marked verse of German poet Rainer Maria Rilke, whose collections profoundly influenced 20th-century German literature and include
The Book of Hours
(1905) and
The Duino Elegies
(1923).
People consider him of the greatest 20th century users of the language.
His haunting images tend to focus on the difficulty of communion with the ineffable in an age of disbelief, solitude, and profound anxiety — themes that tend to position him as a transitional figure between the traditional and the modernist poets.
His two most famous sequences include the Sonnets to Orpheus , and his most famous prose works include the Letters to a Young Poet and the semi-autobiographical The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge .
He also wrote more than four hundred poems in French, dedicated to the canton of Valais in Switzerland, his homeland of choice.
People consider him of the greatest 20th century users of the language.
His haunting images tend to focus on the difficulty of communion with the ineffable in an age of disbelief, solitude, and profound anxiety — themes that tend to position him as a transitional figure between the traditional and the modernist poets.
His two most famous sequences include the Sonnets to Orpheus , and his most famous prose works include the Letters to a Young Poet and the semi-autobiographical The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge .
He also wrote more than four hundred poems in French, dedicated to the canton of Valais in Switzerland, his homeland of choice.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 149 reviews
September 12, 2024
Here is a text that I fragmented to savor, chapter after chapter. We follow a character who tells stories about a good god. But does it exist? Does he appear in every account?
That's for the reader alone to judge. However, I, who did not follow, turned towards the religious theory; I found them charming and pushed me to think.
I would reread it more times, and many details that escaped me would then be returned to me.
Good reading :)
That's for the reader alone to judge. However, I, who did not follow, turned towards the religious theory; I found them charming and pushed me to think.
I would reread it more times, and many details that escaped me would then be returned to me.
Good reading :)
May 18, 2020
"'What has made you so kind?'
'Everything,' she said softly and warmly."
(A Story Told to the Dark)
"The gravedigger still smiled. 'It is a way of earning one's bread–and besides, I ask you, aren't most people doing the same? They bury God up there as I bury men here.' He pointed to the sky... 'Yes, that too is a great grave, in summer it is covered with wild forget-me-nots..." (A Tale of Death)
"Healthy people are so changeable...[the sick's] immobility makes him resemble things, with which indeed he fosters many intimacies; makes him, so to speak, a thing far superior to other things, a thing that listens not only with its silence but also with its rare, quiet words and with its gentle, reverent feelings." (How Old Timofei Died Singing)
'Everything,' she said softly and warmly."
(A Story Told to the Dark)
"The gravedigger still smiled. 'It is a way of earning one's bread–and besides, I ask you, aren't most people doing the same? They bury God up there as I bury men here.' He pointed to the sky... 'Yes, that too is a great grave, in summer it is covered with wild forget-me-nots..." (A Tale of Death)
"Healthy people are so changeable...[the sick's] immobility makes him resemble things, with which indeed he fosters many intimacies; makes him, so to speak, a thing far superior to other things, a thing that listens not only with its silence but also with its rare, quiet words and with its gentle, reverent feelings." (How Old Timofei Died Singing)
November 18, 2024
Beautifully crafted and deeply moving!
August 23, 2019
Admission of Truth:
I feel inadequate to review this book. For the reading experience that it offered was more than what I had expected. In fact, it was just awesome. But that is a word that explains nothing. Rilke comes to rescue me. He writes in one of the stories: "The things we experience are often inexpressible, and any one who insists on telling them nevertheless, necessarily makes mistakes--"
My Expectation and the Surprise:
I began with an expectation that it will reveal something about God. I am a religious person and the spiritual themes always pique my interest. This book offered me that. But it came with a force that I was not expecting. Do not mistake me that it hit me hard. In fact, I used the word 'force' to mean how much I was held captive by the thoughts expressed in the stories. The stories were on the surface level belong to the 'fairy tale type'. The immediate effect of the story was very much similar to the impact any fairy tale would evoke in a kid - pure joy. The story does not stop at that. It stays and the reflection it stimulates later on, are the reasons why they can be classed as spiritual treatises written by a mystic.
The themes are very much in line with Christian mysticism. God is present everywhere. The man is created in the image of God. This image of God is distorted in the process of many historical and technological developments. The artists of every kind and every age try to reveal the original image to both man and God. Man waits for God. It is the piety that keeps man intact in this world. Without piety (search for God) man would lose the equilibrium. To attain God is the eternal satisfaction. If one attains that he will long for nothing.
The harvest was relatively small (only 140 pages) but the riches contained in it were more than expected.
I feel inadequate to review this book. For the reading experience that it offered was more than what I had expected. In fact, it was just awesome. But that is a word that explains nothing. Rilke comes to rescue me. He writes in one of the stories: "The things we experience are often inexpressible, and any one who insists on telling them nevertheless, necessarily makes mistakes--"
My Expectation and the Surprise:
I began with an expectation that it will reveal something about God. I am a religious person and the spiritual themes always pique my interest. This book offered me that. But it came with a force that I was not expecting. Do not mistake me that it hit me hard. In fact, I used the word 'force' to mean how much I was held captive by the thoughts expressed in the stories. The stories were on the surface level belong to the 'fairy tale type'. The immediate effect of the story was very much similar to the impact any fairy tale would evoke in a kid - pure joy. The story does not stop at that. It stays and the reflection it stimulates later on, are the reasons why they can be classed as spiritual treatises written by a mystic.
The themes are very much in line with Christian mysticism. God is present everywhere. The man is created in the image of God. This image of God is distorted in the process of many historical and technological developments. The artists of every kind and every age try to reveal the original image to both man and God. Man waits for God. It is the piety that keeps man intact in this world. Without piety (search for God) man would lose the equilibrium. To attain God is the eternal satisfaction. If one attains that he will long for nothing.
The harvest was relatively small (only 140 pages) but the riches contained in it were more than expected.
May 16, 2009
Rilke reads like mouthfuls of velvet. Here his wisdom is so natural that it's as though you're looking at stars rather than type.
December 11, 2024
„Ono što mi smatramo proljećem, za Boga je malen i kratkotrajan zemljin osmijeh. Ona kao da se tada nečega prisjetila. Zatim ljeti svima o tome priča, a onda postaje mudrija velikom jesenskom šutnjom, kojom se povjerava usamljenima. Sva proljeća, koje smo i vi i ja doživjeli, sabravši sva zajedno, još uvijek nisu dovoljna da osjetimo jednu Božju sekundu. Da bi Bog primijetio proljeće, ono se ne smije zadržati među krošnjama i na livadama, ono se nekako mora osnažiti u ljudima jer se onda takoreći ne događa u vremenu već u vječnosti i u Božjoj sadašnjosti.“
Nevjerojatno mi je kako su ovako kratke priče uspjele biti toliko dosadne. :-/ Ostala sam bez ikakvog utiska. Jedino pozitivno što sam izvukla iz cijele zbirke je ovaj gore citat.
Nevjerojatno mi je kako su ovako kratke priče uspjele biti toliko dosadne. :-/ Ostala sam bez ikakvog utiska. Jedino pozitivno što sam izvukla iz cijele zbirke je ovaj gore citat.
October 10, 2019
Δώρο φίλης σε μια περίοδο που η αισιοδοξία, η ελπίδα και η πίστη σε κάτι μοιάζουν επιτακτικές έννοιες. Κάτι δικά μου και πάμε παρακάτω.
Είναι ένα κατ’ εξοχήν βιβλίο για δεύτερες και τρίτες (ίσως και περισσότερες) αναγνώσεις. Σαφώς οι ιστορίες του δεν έχουν να κάνουν αμιγώς με τον θρησκευτικό χαρακτήρα. Αν με ρωτάς, έτσι κι αλλιώς η πίστη είναι μια καθαρά προσωπική και εσωτερική υπόθεση. Τούτες εδώ οι ιστορίες όμως, είναι τόσο απλές ώστε να είναι καθολικά αποδεκτές και κατανοητές και ταυτόχρονα ζητάνε άλλο τόσο ένα δεύτερο πέρασμα.
Η αφήγηση του Rilke σου αφήνει μια γλυκύτητα στο τέλος. Ίσως αυτό να σημαίνει ότι πέρασε το μήνυμα που ήθελε.
Είναι ένα κατ’ εξοχήν βιβλίο για δεύτερες και τρίτες (ίσως και περισσότερες) αναγνώσεις. Σαφώς οι ιστορίες του δεν έχουν να κάνουν αμιγώς με τον θρησκευτικό χαρακτήρα. Αν με ρωτάς, έτσι κι αλλιώς η πίστη είναι μια καθαρά προσωπική και εσωτερική υπόθεση. Τούτες εδώ οι ιστορίες όμως, είναι τόσο απλές ώστε να είναι καθολικά αποδεκτές και κατανοητές και ταυτόχρονα ζητάνε άλλο τόσο ένα δεύτερο πέρασμα.
Η αφήγηση του Rilke σου αφήνει μια γλυκύτητα στο τέλος. Ίσως αυτό να σημαίνει ότι πέρασε το μήνυμα που ήθελε.
June 19, 2017
Tanrı'dan öyküler adı verilmiş kitaba ama içerik Tanrı hakkında öykülerden oluşuyor. Her öyküde tanrı var bir şekilde. Anlatıcı öyküleri komşusuna, onun aracılığıyla Tanrı hakkında çok soru soran çocuklarına, öğretmen beye ve yürüyemeyen komşusuna anlatıyor. Zaman zaman oldukça sıkıcı ve takip etmesi güçleşen öyküler var. Tanrı'nın varlığını sorgularken kimi zaman da onu elleri olan bir vücuda yaraştıran betimlemeler var.
April 28, 2017
Da geht ein Genie, um des lieben Geldes willen in die Knie oder auf alle Viere und brabbelt für die Kleinen was vom lieben Gott. Frommes Kunstgewerbe fürs Regal, nur für schlichte Gemüter, die auch mal was von einem großen Dichter gelesen und verstanden haben wollen.
August 3, 2015
Cum a ajuns degetarul sa fie Dumnezeu
Cind plecai de la fereastra, norii de seara erau tot pe cer. Pareau ca asteapta. Ce-ar fi sa le spun si lor o poveste? Le facui propunerea. Ei insa nu ma auzira. Ca sa-i fac sa ma inteleaga si ca sa scurtez departarea dintre noi, strigai: “Eu sint, ca si voi, un nor de seara”. Si ei se oprira si pareau ca se uita la mine. Apoi isi intinsera spre mine aripile fine, stravezii, rosietice. Asa se salute de obicei norii de seara. Ei ma recunoscusera.
“Noi sintem deasupra pamintului”, spusera ei, “mai precis deasupra Europei, dar tu?” Eu sovaii: “Vad jos o tara…” “Cum e?” se grabira ei sa ma intrebe. “Asa, ca o inserare amestecata cu lucruri…” “Asta e tot Europa”, rise un nouras. “Se poate”, zisei, “dar eu am auzit necontenit ca lucrurile din Europa sint moarte.” “Fireste ca da”, observa un altul cu dispret. “ce neghiobie ar mai fi si asta: lucruri vii!” “Ei bine”, staruii eu, “ale mele traiesc. Deci asta-i deosebirea. Ele pot sa capete forme felurite si un lucru, care a venit pe lume ca plaivaz ori ca soba n-are de ce deznadajdui ca miine va deveni altceva mai bun. Un plaivaz poate sa ajunga odata si odata, daca-i merge bine, un baston, un catarg, un camin sau macar o poarta de oras.”
“Nor de seara, tu-mi par cam prostanac”, zise nourasul care si mai inainte se exprimase atit de putin respectuos. Un nor mosneag se temu sa nu ma fi jignit cumva: “Sint fel de fel de tari”, cauta el s-o indulceasca, “eu ma aflam cindva deasupra unui mic principat nemtesc si nici pina azi nu pot crede ca facea parte din Europa.” Ii multumii si graii: “Dupa cite vad, greu vom putea sa ne intelegem. Fie-mi ingaduit sa va spun ce-am vazut pe sub mine in timpul din urma; ar fi cel mai nimerit lucru.” “ma rog, ” incuviinta inteleptul nor batrin ca din partea tuturor. Eu incepui: “Intr-o odaie sint oameni. Trebuie sa stiti ca eu ii vad foarte de sus si tocmai de aceea imi apar ca niste copii; deci am sa zic simplu: copii. Prin urmare: intr-o odaie sint copii. Doi, cinci, sase, sapte copii. Ar dura prea mult sa ma intrebati de numele lor. Si apoi, copiii parca discuta ceva foarte inflacarat; cu prilejul acesta se da pe fata, incet, incet, fiecare nume. Ei stau asa pilc un rastimp, caci cel mai rasarit dintre ei (aud ca-l cheama Hans) rosteste parca incheind vorba: O mica pauza, apoi Hans raspunde tot el: < Nu se mai pomeneste nicaieri. Eu, din partea mea si fiindca sint oarecum mare, le las cu placere in seama pe ticalosii aia de zmei sa-si bata capul cu ei, dar, oricum, se cade sa ne spuna ca sint zine, pitici, printi si monstri de tot soiul. > < Eu am o matusa >, zise o fetita, < care-mi spune din cind in cind….> < Ah, ce >, i-o taie scurt Hans, < matusile nu conteaza, spun minciuni.> Aceasta afirmatie indrazneata si necombatuta intimida intreaga adunare. Hans continua: < Si inainte de orice e vorba de parinti pentru ca ei au intrucitva datoria sa ne invete aceste lucruri; din partea celorlalti e mai mult o bunatate. Lor nu poti sa le-o ceri. Bagati de seama ins ace fac parintii nostri? Ei umbla cu fete posomorite si suparate, nimic nu le intra in voie, striga si suduie si – culmea! – sint atit de nepasatori ca, de le-ar pieri lumea, mai ca n-ar baga de seama. Ei au ceva ce numesc idealuri. Poate ca si astea sint un fel de copii mici, pe care nu-I pot lasa singuri si care le dau foarte mult de lucru; dar atunci nu trebuia sa ne aiba pe noi. Eu, copii, ma gindesc asa: e trist, desigur, ca parintii uita de noi. Noi insa am indura totul, daca n-ar fi o dovada ca ce mari se prostesc, dau inapoi daca se poate zice asa. Noi nu le putem opri decaderea; caci noi, cit este ziua de mare, n-avem ragaz sa avem vreo inriurire asupra lor, iar cind ne intoarcem tirziu de la scoala, nimeni nu ne cere sa-l invatam ceva cu cap. Si-ti face rau cind sezi si tot sezi la lumina lampii si mama nu pricepe nici macar teorema lui Pitagora. Vedeti, asa e. Au sa se prosteasca cei mari din ce in ce mai rau… paguba-n ciuperci, ce-avem noi de pierdut? Educatia? Ei isi scot palaria, unul in fata altuia, si de se intimpla sa iasa la iveala o chelie bufnesc in ris. Atita stiu si ei: sa rida. Daca n-am fi noi atit de cu scaun la cap ca sa mai plingem din cind in cind, n-ar fi nici o cumpana nici in aceste lucruri. Si pe deasupra sint asa de ingimfati: cred chiar una ca asta, ca imparatul ar fi un om in virsta. Eu am citit in ziare ca regele Spaniei e un copil – asa e cu toti regi isi imparatii, - sa nu va lasati trasi pe sfoara! Dar pe linga toate lucrurile de prisos, cei mari au totusi ceva fata de care nu putem ramine nepasatori: pe Bunul Dumnezeu. Eu nu l-am prea vazut la nimeni – dar tocmai asta da de banuit. L-au pierdut, pesemne, pe undeva, distrati, ocupati si grabiti cum sint. El insa e ceva de care avem absoluta nevoie. Fara dinsul multe lucruri nu se pot intimpla, soarele nu poate sa rasara, copiii nu pot sa vina pe lume si piinea, si ea, se ispraveste. Chiar daca brutarul o scoate, totusi Bunul Dumnezeu e acela care sade si invirteste morile cele mari. Din multe motive Bunul Dumnezeu e ceva de care avem nevoie. Dar un lucru e sigur: ca celor mari nu le pasa de dinsul, asa ca noi, copiii, trebuie sa rezolvam asta. Noi sintem taman sapte copii. Fiecare sa-l poarte pe Bunul Dumnezeu o zi si astfel intreaga saptamina va fi la noi si vom sti totdeauna sigur unde se afla. >
Aici se isca o mare nedumerire. Cum are sa se petreaca asta? Poti oare sa iei pe Bunul Dumnezeu in mina si sa-l viri in buzunar? In legatura cu asta, un micut povesti: < Eram singur in odaie. O lampa mica ardea linga mine si eu sedeam in pat si-mi spuneam rugaciunea de seara, cu glas tare. Ceva se misca in miinile mele impreunate. Era moale si cald, si mic ca o pasarica. Nu puteam sa-mi desprind miinile, caci rugaciunea nu se sfirsise inca. Dar eram foarte curios si ma rugam grozav de repede. Apoi, la Amin, facui asa (micutul intinse miinile si rasfira degetele), dar nu era nimic in palme.>
Asta si-o putea inchipui oricine. Nici Hans nu stiu sa dea vreun sfat. Toti se uitau la dinsul. Si deodata zise: < Asta e o nerozie. Orice lucru poate fi Dumnezeu. Numai sa-i spui. > Se intoarse catre cel care statea linga el, un baiat cu parul rosu. Incet, incet, se patrunsera si ceilalti de acest adevar. < Avem nevoie insa de un obiect mic, pe care sa-l poti lua cu tine pretutindeni, altfel n-are nici un sens. Ia goliti-va buzunarele!> Si-acum se aratara foarte ciudate lucruri: bucati de hirtie, bricege, gume de sters, penite, sfori, pietricele, suruburi, fluiere, betisoare si multe altele care nu se pot vedea bine de departe sau al caror nume imi scapa. Si toate aceste lucruri sedeau in miinile copiilor, inspaimintate parca de gindul naprasnic ca ar putea deveni Bunul Dumnezeu, si care dintre ele era in stare sa luceasca, lucea ca sa-i placa lui Hans. Alegerea sovai multa vreme. In sfirsit, la mica Resi se gasea un degetar pe care ea il luase odata de la mama-sa. Stralucea ca argintul si pentru frumusetea lui deveni Bunul Dumnezeu. Hans il lua cu sine, fiindca el incepea sirul si toti copiii se tinura dupa el intreaga zi si erau mindri de dinsul. Numai cu greu se invoiau cine are sa-l poarte mine si atunci Hans, in prevederea lui, hotari programul pentru toata saptamina, ca sa nu se mai iveasca vreo cearta.
Aceasta rinduiala se dovedi intru totul neobisnuit de bine chibzuita. Cel care-l avea pe Bunul Dumnezeu se putea recunoaste dintr-o aruncatura de ochi. Caci acela mergea mai tantos si mai solemn, si facea o fata ca de duminica. In cele dintii trei zile, copiii nu mai vorbeau despre nimic altceva. In orice clipa cerea cite unul sa vada pe Bunul Dumnezeu si daca degetarul, sun inriurirea inaltei lui demnitati, nu se schimbase nicidecum, tot ce era in el degetaresc parea acum numai o haina modesta pentru faptura cea adevarata. Totul mergea in rinduiala. Miercuri il avu Paul, joi micuta Anna. Sosi simbata. Copiii se jucau de-a prinselea si zburdau intr-un suflet claie peste gramada cind Hans striga deodata: Toti se oprira pe loc. Fiecare se uita la celalalt. Nimeni nu-si aducea aminte sa fi vazut degetarul de doua zile. Hans numara cine era la rind si iesi: mica Marie. Si acum, fara multa vorba, i se ceru micutei Marie sa-l scoata pe Bunul Dumnezeu. Ce era de facut? Micuta scotoci prin buzunare. Abia acum isi aduse aminte ca-l primise de dimineata; dar acum nu mai era, poate ca-l pierduse jucindu-se. Si cind copiii plecara acasa, micuta ramasa in poiana, si cauta. Iarba era inalta. De doua ori o intrebara trecatorii daca a pierdut ceva. Copila raspundea: < Un degetar>, si cauta. Oamenii faceau si ei la fel o vreme, dar in curind li se ura de cautat si unul o sfatui in vreme ce pleca: < Mai bine du-te acasa, poti sa cumperi unul nou. > Dar Marie cauta mai departe. Poiana se facea tot mai singuratica in amurg si iarba incepu sa se umezeasca. Atunci mai sosi un trecator. El se apleca si o intreba pe copila: < Ce cauti tu? > Acum Marie raspunse, cit pe-aici sa izbucneasca in plins, dar indrazneata si dirza: < Pe bunul Dumnezeu. > Strainul surise, o lua de mina si ea se lasa dusa ca si cum acum totul ar fi mers bine. Pe drum strainul ii zise: < Ia te uita ce degetar frumos am gasit eu astazi.>”
Norii de seara erau inca de mult nerabdatori. Acum se intoarse spre mine norul cel batrin care in vremea asta crescuse din plin: “Scuza-ma, as putea sa stiu numele tarii peste care…” Dar norii ceilalti se grabeau rizind spre adincul cerului si-l trasera pe batrin dupa ei.
Cind plecai de la fereastra, norii de seara erau tot pe cer. Pareau ca asteapta. Ce-ar fi sa le spun si lor o poveste? Le facui propunerea. Ei insa nu ma auzira. Ca sa-i fac sa ma inteleaga si ca sa scurtez departarea dintre noi, strigai: “Eu sint, ca si voi, un nor de seara”. Si ei se oprira si pareau ca se uita la mine. Apoi isi intinsera spre mine aripile fine, stravezii, rosietice. Asa se salute de obicei norii de seara. Ei ma recunoscusera.
“Noi sintem deasupra pamintului”, spusera ei, “mai precis deasupra Europei, dar tu?” Eu sovaii: “Vad jos o tara…” “Cum e?” se grabira ei sa ma intrebe. “Asa, ca o inserare amestecata cu lucruri…” “Asta e tot Europa”, rise un nouras. “Se poate”, zisei, “dar eu am auzit necontenit ca lucrurile din Europa sint moarte.” “Fireste ca da”, observa un altul cu dispret. “ce neghiobie ar mai fi si asta: lucruri vii!” “Ei bine”, staruii eu, “ale mele traiesc. Deci asta-i deosebirea. Ele pot sa capete forme felurite si un lucru, care a venit pe lume ca plaivaz ori ca soba n-are de ce deznadajdui ca miine va deveni altceva mai bun. Un plaivaz poate sa ajunga odata si odata, daca-i merge bine, un baston, un catarg, un camin sau macar o poarta de oras.”
“Nor de seara, tu-mi par cam prostanac”, zise nourasul care si mai inainte se exprimase atit de putin respectuos. Un nor mosneag se temu sa nu ma fi jignit cumva: “Sint fel de fel de tari”, cauta el s-o indulceasca, “eu ma aflam cindva deasupra unui mic principat nemtesc si nici pina azi nu pot crede ca facea parte din Europa.” Ii multumii si graii: “Dupa cite vad, greu vom putea sa ne intelegem. Fie-mi ingaduit sa va spun ce-am vazut pe sub mine in timpul din urma; ar fi cel mai nimerit lucru.” “ma rog, ” incuviinta inteleptul nor batrin ca din partea tuturor. Eu incepui: “Intr-o odaie sint oameni. Trebuie sa stiti ca eu ii vad foarte de sus si tocmai de aceea imi apar ca niste copii; deci am sa zic simplu: copii. Prin urmare: intr-o odaie sint copii. Doi, cinci, sase, sapte copii. Ar dura prea mult sa ma intrebati de numele lor. Si apoi, copiii parca discuta ceva foarte inflacarat; cu prilejul acesta se da pe fata, incet, incet, fiecare nume. Ei stau asa pilc un rastimp, caci cel mai rasarit dintre ei (aud ca-l cheama Hans) rosteste parca incheind vorba: O mica pauza, apoi Hans raspunde tot el: < Nu se mai pomeneste nicaieri. Eu, din partea mea si fiindca sint oarecum mare, le las cu placere in seama pe ticalosii aia de zmei sa-si bata capul cu ei, dar, oricum, se cade sa ne spuna ca sint zine, pitici, printi si monstri de tot soiul. > < Eu am o matusa >, zise o fetita, < care-mi spune din cind in cind….> < Ah, ce >, i-o taie scurt Hans, < matusile nu conteaza, spun minciuni.> Aceasta afirmatie indrazneata si necombatuta intimida intreaga adunare. Hans continua: < Si inainte de orice e vorba de parinti pentru ca ei au intrucitva datoria sa ne invete aceste lucruri; din partea celorlalti e mai mult o bunatate. Lor nu poti sa le-o ceri. Bagati de seama ins ace fac parintii nostri? Ei umbla cu fete posomorite si suparate, nimic nu le intra in voie, striga si suduie si – culmea! – sint atit de nepasatori ca, de le-ar pieri lumea, mai ca n-ar baga de seama. Ei au ceva ce numesc idealuri. Poate ca si astea sint un fel de copii mici, pe care nu-I pot lasa singuri si care le dau foarte mult de lucru; dar atunci nu trebuia sa ne aiba pe noi. Eu, copii, ma gindesc asa: e trist, desigur, ca parintii uita de noi. Noi insa am indura totul, daca n-ar fi o dovada ca ce mari se prostesc, dau inapoi daca se poate zice asa. Noi nu le putem opri decaderea; caci noi, cit este ziua de mare, n-avem ragaz sa avem vreo inriurire asupra lor, iar cind ne intoarcem tirziu de la scoala, nimeni nu ne cere sa-l invatam ceva cu cap. Si-ti face rau cind sezi si tot sezi la lumina lampii si mama nu pricepe nici macar teorema lui Pitagora. Vedeti, asa e. Au sa se prosteasca cei mari din ce in ce mai rau… paguba-n ciuperci, ce-avem noi de pierdut? Educatia? Ei isi scot palaria, unul in fata altuia, si de se intimpla sa iasa la iveala o chelie bufnesc in ris. Atita stiu si ei: sa rida. Daca n-am fi noi atit de cu scaun la cap ca sa mai plingem din cind in cind, n-ar fi nici o cumpana nici in aceste lucruri. Si pe deasupra sint asa de ingimfati: cred chiar una ca asta, ca imparatul ar fi un om in virsta. Eu am citit in ziare ca regele Spaniei e un copil – asa e cu toti regi isi imparatii, - sa nu va lasati trasi pe sfoara! Dar pe linga toate lucrurile de prisos, cei mari au totusi ceva fata de care nu putem ramine nepasatori: pe Bunul Dumnezeu. Eu nu l-am prea vazut la nimeni – dar tocmai asta da de banuit. L-au pierdut, pesemne, pe undeva, distrati, ocupati si grabiti cum sint. El insa e ceva de care avem absoluta nevoie. Fara dinsul multe lucruri nu se pot intimpla, soarele nu poate sa rasara, copiii nu pot sa vina pe lume si piinea, si ea, se ispraveste. Chiar daca brutarul o scoate, totusi Bunul Dumnezeu e acela care sade si invirteste morile cele mari. Din multe motive Bunul Dumnezeu e ceva de care avem nevoie. Dar un lucru e sigur: ca celor mari nu le pasa de dinsul, asa ca noi, copiii, trebuie sa rezolvam asta. Noi sintem taman sapte copii. Fiecare sa-l poarte pe Bunul Dumnezeu o zi si astfel intreaga saptamina va fi la noi si vom sti totdeauna sigur unde se afla. >
Aici se isca o mare nedumerire. Cum are sa se petreaca asta? Poti oare sa iei pe Bunul Dumnezeu in mina si sa-l viri in buzunar? In legatura cu asta, un micut povesti: < Eram singur in odaie. O lampa mica ardea linga mine si eu sedeam in pat si-mi spuneam rugaciunea de seara, cu glas tare. Ceva se misca in miinile mele impreunate. Era moale si cald, si mic ca o pasarica. Nu puteam sa-mi desprind miinile, caci rugaciunea nu se sfirsise inca. Dar eram foarte curios si ma rugam grozav de repede. Apoi, la Amin, facui asa (micutul intinse miinile si rasfira degetele), dar nu era nimic in palme.>
Asta si-o putea inchipui oricine. Nici Hans nu stiu sa dea vreun sfat. Toti se uitau la dinsul. Si deodata zise: < Asta e o nerozie. Orice lucru poate fi Dumnezeu. Numai sa-i spui. > Se intoarse catre cel care statea linga el, un baiat cu parul rosu. Incet, incet, se patrunsera si ceilalti de acest adevar. < Avem nevoie insa de un obiect mic, pe care sa-l poti lua cu tine pretutindeni, altfel n-are nici un sens. Ia goliti-va buzunarele!> Si-acum se aratara foarte ciudate lucruri: bucati de hirtie, bricege, gume de sters, penite, sfori, pietricele, suruburi, fluiere, betisoare si multe altele care nu se pot vedea bine de departe sau al caror nume imi scapa. Si toate aceste lucruri sedeau in miinile copiilor, inspaimintate parca de gindul naprasnic ca ar putea deveni Bunul Dumnezeu, si care dintre ele era in stare sa luceasca, lucea ca sa-i placa lui Hans. Alegerea sovai multa vreme. In sfirsit, la mica Resi se gasea un degetar pe care ea il luase odata de la mama-sa. Stralucea ca argintul si pentru frumusetea lui deveni Bunul Dumnezeu. Hans il lua cu sine, fiindca el incepea sirul si toti copiii se tinura dupa el intreaga zi si erau mindri de dinsul. Numai cu greu se invoiau cine are sa-l poarte mine si atunci Hans, in prevederea lui, hotari programul pentru toata saptamina, ca sa nu se mai iveasca vreo cearta.
Aceasta rinduiala se dovedi intru totul neobisnuit de bine chibzuita. Cel care-l avea pe Bunul Dumnezeu se putea recunoaste dintr-o aruncatura de ochi. Caci acela mergea mai tantos si mai solemn, si facea o fata ca de duminica. In cele dintii trei zile, copiii nu mai vorbeau despre nimic altceva. In orice clipa cerea cite unul sa vada pe Bunul Dumnezeu si daca degetarul, sun inriurirea inaltei lui demnitati, nu se schimbase nicidecum, tot ce era in el degetaresc parea acum numai o haina modesta pentru faptura cea adevarata. Totul mergea in rinduiala. Miercuri il avu Paul, joi micuta Anna. Sosi simbata. Copiii se jucau de-a prinselea si zburdau intr-un suflet claie peste gramada cind Hans striga deodata: Toti se oprira pe loc. Fiecare se uita la celalalt. Nimeni nu-si aducea aminte sa fi vazut degetarul de doua zile. Hans numara cine era la rind si iesi: mica Marie. Si acum, fara multa vorba, i se ceru micutei Marie sa-l scoata pe Bunul Dumnezeu. Ce era de facut? Micuta scotoci prin buzunare. Abia acum isi aduse aminte ca-l primise de dimineata; dar acum nu mai era, poate ca-l pierduse jucindu-se. Si cind copiii plecara acasa, micuta ramasa in poiana, si cauta. Iarba era inalta. De doua ori o intrebara trecatorii daca a pierdut ceva. Copila raspundea: < Un degetar>, si cauta. Oamenii faceau si ei la fel o vreme, dar in curind li se ura de cautat si unul o sfatui in vreme ce pleca: < Mai bine du-te acasa, poti sa cumperi unul nou. > Dar Marie cauta mai departe. Poiana se facea tot mai singuratica in amurg si iarba incepu sa se umezeasca. Atunci mai sosi un trecator. El se apleca si o intreba pe copila: < Ce cauti tu? > Acum Marie raspunse, cit pe-aici sa izbucneasca in plins, dar indrazneata si dirza: < Pe bunul Dumnezeu. > Strainul surise, o lua de mina si ea se lasa dusa ca si cum acum totul ar fi mers bine. Pe drum strainul ii zise: < Ia te uita ce degetar frumos am gasit eu astazi.>”
Norii de seara erau inca de mult nerabdatori. Acum se intoarse spre mine norul cel batrin care in vremea asta crescuse din plin: “Scuza-ma, as putea sa stiu numele tarii peste care…” Dar norii ceilalti se grabeau rizind spre adincul cerului si-l trasera pe batrin dupa ei.
December 29, 2019
Τι ήταν Αλήθεια αυτές οι ιστορίες; Δεν έχω ακόμα καταφέρει να συνειδητοποιήσω έπειτα από καιρό τί ήταν αυτό πού διάβασα. Ήταν σίγουρα κάτι πρωτόγνωρο για μένα. Ήταν μια παρουσίαση του Θεού με έναν πανέξυπνο τρόπο, ίσως και να πρόκειται για έναν από τους πιο ευφυείς συγγραφείς που έζησαν ποτέ. Ήταν ιστορίες-ευκαιρίες για πολλή σκέψη, με παρόμοιο τρόπο όπως οι "Ιστορίες του κυρίου Κ." του μεγάλου Μπρεχτ . Δεν υπάρχει περίπτωση να διαβαστεί από κάποιον μία, χωρίς να χρειαστούν τουλάχιστον 2-3 μέρες για να σκεφτεί πριν να προχωρήσει στην επόμενη. Επίσης, απαιτούν την πλήρη προσήλωση, εάν κάποιος δεν τις διαβάσει 100% συγκεντρωμένος, δεν πρόκειται να συλλάβει πλήρως το νόημα που θα έπρεπε να συλλάβει. Το μόνο σίγουρο, όπως έγραψε και μια άλλη κοπέλα, είναι ότι ούτε κι η δεύτερη ανάγνωση είναι αρκετή. Ίσως η τρίτη!
March 13, 2018
This was a relaxing, lovely and nice read.
Every chapter is a short story though the main character is always the same and we meet some characters also in other chapters. This main character tells stories about God, though not stories we are used to. In some stories God is not metioned so it's up to the reader to find him. He tells these stories to adults, saying them to retell them to children. Why? Because they are the only ones that can understand these stories, and that can see God in them. Not only children, but also artists and poets, humble, poor or sick people are those who are closer to God. And it's through children, poets and poor people that we can "meet" God.
Really lovely stories that I should reread someday.
Every chapter is a short story though the main character is always the same and we meet some characters also in other chapters. This main character tells stories about God, though not stories we are used to. In some stories God is not metioned so it's up to the reader to find him. He tells these stories to adults, saying them to retell them to children. Why? Because they are the only ones that can understand these stories, and that can see God in them. Not only children, but also artists and poets, humble, poor or sick people are those who are closer to God. And it's through children, poets and poor people that we can "meet" God.
Really lovely stories that I should reread someday.
January 5, 2025
This was literally bible premium pro
“He succeeded with the forehead. Much harder for Him was to make the two nostrils symmetrical.”
“Michelangelo,” God called out anxiously, “who is in the stone?”… “You, O Lord, who else? But I can’t get at You.” And then God felt that He was in the stone too, and He became afraid and felt closed in. The whole of heaven was a stone, and He was shut up in the middle of it, relying on Michelangelo’s hands to liberate Him; and He heard them coming, though still at a distance.”
“But the next time God looked down upon the earth, He recoiled with fear. Next to the multitude of joined hands, people had built many Gothic churches, with the result that the hands and the roofs, equally steep and sharp, were pointing up at Him like hostile weapons... when He noticed that the towers and the new prayers were multiplying behind His back, He departed from His heaven by going out the other side, thus withdrawing Himself from the persecution.”
“He succeeded with the forehead. Much harder for Him was to make the two nostrils symmetrical.”
“Michelangelo,” God called out anxiously, “who is in the stone?”… “You, O Lord, who else? But I can’t get at You.” And then God felt that He was in the stone too, and He became afraid and felt closed in. The whole of heaven was a stone, and He was shut up in the middle of it, relying on Michelangelo’s hands to liberate Him; and He heard them coming, though still at a distance.”
“But the next time God looked down upon the earth, He recoiled with fear. Next to the multitude of joined hands, people had built many Gothic churches, with the result that the hands and the roofs, equally steep and sharp, were pointing up at Him like hostile weapons... when He noticed that the towers and the new prayers were multiplying behind His back, He departed from His heaven by going out the other side, thus withdrawing Himself from the persecution.”
August 12, 2020
Σε σημεία με παρέσυρε. Σε άλλα σημεία με κούρασε. Ίσως έπαιρνε και 4ο αστεράκι για την αξεπέραστη ανατριχίλα της τελευταίας παραγράφου.
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April 2, 2022
this was surprisingly nice!
September 7, 2023
A collection of pleasant little stories—some much better than others—toying imaginatively with ideas of God and other things, as children might. Some excerpts I particularly enjoyed:
"'Where did you get the story you told me last time?' he begged me then. 'Out of a book?' 'Yes,' I answered sadly, 'the historians have kept it buried there, since it died; that is not so very long ago. Only a hundred years since, it lived—quite carelessly, for sure—on many lips.'" (How Old Timofei Died Singing)
"'I imagine one can never tell whether God is in a story before one has finished it completely. For if only two words of the telling are still missing—indeed, if nothing but the pause after the last word is still outstanding, he may yet come.'" (The Song of Justice)
"'What we feel as spring, God feels as a fleeting little smile passing over the earth. Earth seems to be remembering something; in summer she tells every one about it, until she grows wiser in the great autumnal silence, through which she confides in those who are lonely. All the springs you and I have lived through, put together, still do not suffice to fill a single one of God's seconds. A spring, for God to notice it, may not remain in trees and on the meadows; it must somehow manifest its strength in man, for then it will proceed, as it were, not within time, but rather in eternity and in God's presence.'" (Of One Who Listened to the Stones)
"'The things we experience often cannot be expressed, and any one who insists on telling them nevertheless, is bound to make mistakes.'" (A Story Told to the Dark)
"'Where did you get the story you told me last time?' he begged me then. 'Out of a book?' 'Yes,' I answered sadly, 'the historians have kept it buried there, since it died; that is not so very long ago. Only a hundred years since, it lived—quite carelessly, for sure—on many lips.'" (How Old Timofei Died Singing)
"'I imagine one can never tell whether God is in a story before one has finished it completely. For if only two words of the telling are still missing—indeed, if nothing but the pause after the last word is still outstanding, he may yet come.'" (The Song of Justice)
"'What we feel as spring, God feels as a fleeting little smile passing over the earth. Earth seems to be remembering something; in summer she tells every one about it, until she grows wiser in the great autumnal silence, through which she confides in those who are lonely. All the springs you and I have lived through, put together, still do not suffice to fill a single one of God's seconds. A spring, for God to notice it, may not remain in trees and on the meadows; it must somehow manifest its strength in man, for then it will proceed, as it were, not within time, but rather in eternity and in God's presence.'" (Of One Who Listened to the Stones)
"'The things we experience often cannot be expressed, and any one who insists on telling them nevertheless, is bound to make mistakes.'" (A Story Told to the Dark)
March 5, 2022
Rilke wrote these thirteen stories in seven consecutive nights, stories he described as "...busied with transferring God from the sphere of rumor into the realm of direct and daily experiencing..."
Rilke inserts himself into the stories as the storyteller who is shy with children; he wants to tell these stories to them but cannot approach them directly, so he tells the stories to his neighbors, asking them to pass them on to the children.
One wonders how the children will react to these peculiar stories. They are so mysterious and open-ended; I thought them beautiful.
Rilke inserts himself into the stories as the storyteller who is shy with children; he wants to tell these stories to them but cannot approach them directly, so he tells the stories to his neighbors, asking them to pass them on to the children.
One wonders how the children will react to these peculiar stories. They are so mysterious and open-ended; I thought them beautiful.
January 21, 2016
Tenho a vaga ideia de este livro ter saído algures num jornal qualquer há alguns anos, mas não sei precisar nem quando nem qual.
Um livro com pequenos contos, com o ponto comum de terem todos o mesmo narrador, sendo histórias fáceis de ser transmitidas oralmente com o tema comum de serem histórias sobre Deus.
Decididamente não é um género literário que me agrade e só peguei no livro por ser pequeno e porque quero ir "despachando" livros da pilha.
Um livro com pequenos contos, com o ponto comum de terem todos o mesmo narrador, sendo histórias fáceis de ser transmitidas oralmente com o tema comum de serem histórias sobre Deus.
Decididamente não é um género literário que me agrade e só peguei no livro por ser pequeno e porque quero ir "despachando" livros da pilha.
May 26, 2010
If Hans Christian Andersen and CS Lewis had a baby. There's some interesting mythology here, but this is not my favorite Rilke.
Read
June 11, 2024Son trece historias que se interconectan, en este caso; cuentos dirigidos a los niños y a los que no son niños sobre Dios o "el buen Dios"
En algunos momentos sentía que Rainer María se despegaba de la típica historia de Dios pero al mismo tiempo no dejaba de dar guiños a la historia que todos conocemos.
Algunos me gustaron y otros no tanto, quedo con la bonita impresión de que el autor quería reflejar la belleza de todas las cosas, no solo el "Dios bueno o malo" era poder vivir con sentimiento y encontrar la esperanza en los momentos más tormentosos.
De nuevo pude releer un fragmento de la carta que mandó en, "Cartas a un joven poeta" que es mágico.
En algunos momentos sentía que Rainer María se despegaba de la típica historia de Dios pero al mismo tiempo no dejaba de dar guiños a la historia que todos conocemos.
Algunos me gustaron y otros no tanto, quedo con la bonita impresión de que el autor quería reflejar la belleza de todas las cosas, no solo el "Dios bueno o malo" era poder vivir con sentimiento y encontrar la esperanza en los momentos más tormentosos.
De nuevo pude releer un fragmento de la carta que mandó en, "Cartas a un joven poeta" que es mágico.
"Y si a usted le llena de angustia o de ansiedad pensar en la infancia y en lo que en ella hay de sencillo y sosegado porque ya no puede creer en Dios que allí se encuentra por todas partes, pregúntese a sí mismo, querido señor Kappus, si de veras ha perdido a Dios. ¿No será más bien que no lo ha poseído nunca? Porque, ¿cuándo lo habría podido poseer?
March 24, 2020
When the people of Austria and Germany talk about Rilke, those who have read his works, they generally put him on a pedestal, like a man whose every word, whose every idea, whose allegedly rich poetic philosophy was incredibly and undeniably grand. All I can say about Rilke is that either something gets horribly lost in translation, or his works are, for me, frustratingly uninteresting, like reading an author everyone tells you is magnificent, then waiting for the moment when you’re certain you will, on some unknown page, find yourself agreeing. But instead, you find nothing of the sort. Rilke just utterly bores me, in absolutely everything he writes, and I’ve now read three of his works, searching for that moment when some light bulb will go off and I’ll be amazed. Ugh.
July 31, 2020
S/O to the first review (feels like I’m in 5th grade again giving my book synopsis in Mrs Beths class). Rilke had a simple way of telling short stories that had glimpses of God. These lil words made me feel like I was pulling up a chair and listening to an old man depart his wisdom. I finished it wanting to be more inquisitive and child like in my posture towards big G. Downfall was not sure if I was still waking up while reading it in the morning or if some of the stories just didn’t fully captivate but we will go with a solid 3 stars. Def one I didn’t feel like I couldn’t put down, but goooood stuff nonetheless.
QOTB (quote of the book, clearly): a Mom was talking about her children asking the question ‘what’. “and not just questions such as: Where does this horse-car go? How many stars are there? And is ten thousand more than many? Quite different things as well! For example: Does God speak Chinese too? And: What does God look like? Always everything about God! But that’s something we ourselves don’t know about—“
QOTB (quote of the book, clearly): a Mom was talking about her children asking the question ‘what’. “and not just questions such as: Where does this horse-car go? How many stars are there? And is ten thousand more than many? Quite different things as well! For example: Does God speak Chinese too? And: What does God look like? Always everything about God! But that’s something we ourselves don’t know about—“
August 31, 2022
“Strange,” Said the doctor.
“What, Georg?”
“How well you understand life. How you’ve grown up, how young you’ve become.”
“What, Georg?”
“How well you understand life. How you’ve grown up, how young you’ve become.”
September 7, 2009
Stories of God is an early work of Rilke's, written at the age of 23 on seven consecutive nights in 1899 as a series of connected stories about God for children. The book is written as a first-person narrative with the stories embedded. As the narrator goes about his daily life, he tells these stories to certain neighbors or other listeners, such as the clouds and the dark, with the admonition to pass them on to the children.
Twenty years after the stories were written, Rilke provided this insight as to his reason for writing them, "...these youthful fantasies were almost entirely improvised out of an instinct which, if I were to specify it more particularly, I might describe as busied with transferring God from the sphere of rumor into the realm of direct and daily experiencing; the recommending by every means a naive and lively taking-into-use of God with which I seemed to have been charged since childhood...."
The impetus for the stories is clear enough in the book's first story, "The Tale of the Hands of God." The narrator is outside and exchanges greetings with the woman next door. Asking about her children, he begins to walk beside her while she answers. She reports that they are at the age to be asking so many questions, including questions about God. "Does God speak Chinese too? and: What does God look like? Always everything about God!" She adds, however, "But that's something we ourselves don't know about–" The narrator responds by suggesting "we can have our guesses..." He proceeds to tell the woman what he knows about God's hands, in the form of a story. The narrator encourages her to tell the story to the children and the narrator is soon rewarded with a letter from the children, to which he sends a reply stating his intention to tell them more stories about God through other intermediaries.
The stories continue, with a total of 13. Sometimes the intermediary doesn't understand or appreciate the story–eg, the clouds laugh and run away, the schoolmaster scoffs–but the children seem to understand. In two cases, God appears to be missing completely from the story. With the first, the narrator is shocked that a story can exist without God in it, let alone that he could tell one. His shut-in neighbor next door, the recipient of a number of stories, reassures him, "I imagine one can never tell whether God is in a story before one has finished it completely. For if only two words of the story are still missing--indeed, if nothing but the pause after the last word is still outstanding, he may yet come."
Twenty years after the stories were written, Rilke provided this insight as to his reason for writing them, "...these youthful fantasies were almost entirely improvised out of an instinct which, if I were to specify it more particularly, I might describe as busied with transferring God from the sphere of rumor into the realm of direct and daily experiencing; the recommending by every means a naive and lively taking-into-use of God with which I seemed to have been charged since childhood...."
The impetus for the stories is clear enough in the book's first story, "The Tale of the Hands of God." The narrator is outside and exchanges greetings with the woman next door. Asking about her children, he begins to walk beside her while she answers. She reports that they are at the age to be asking so many questions, including questions about God. "Does God speak Chinese too? and: What does God look like? Always everything about God!" She adds, however, "But that's something we ourselves don't know about–" The narrator responds by suggesting "we can have our guesses..." He proceeds to tell the woman what he knows about God's hands, in the form of a story. The narrator encourages her to tell the story to the children and the narrator is soon rewarded with a letter from the children, to which he sends a reply stating his intention to tell them more stories about God through other intermediaries.
The stories continue, with a total of 13. Sometimes the intermediary doesn't understand or appreciate the story–eg, the clouds laugh and run away, the schoolmaster scoffs–but the children seem to understand. In two cases, God appears to be missing completely from the story. With the first, the narrator is shocked that a story can exist without God in it, let alone that he could tell one. His shut-in neighbor next door, the recipient of a number of stories, reassures him, "I imagine one can never tell whether God is in a story before one has finished it completely. For if only two words of the story are still missing--indeed, if nothing but the pause after the last word is still outstanding, he may yet come."
June 6, 2024
‘What we experience as spring, God sees as a slight, fugitive smile passing over the earth. Earth seems to be remembering something, in summer she tells every one about it, until she grows wise in the great autumnal silence, through which she confides in those who are lonely. All the springs you and I have lived through put together would not suffice to fill a single one of God's seconds. Spring, if he is to
notice it, must not remain in trees and on the meadows; it must somehow manifest itself in man, for then it comes to pass, as it were, not within the limits of time, but rather in eternity and in God’s presence.’
3.5
Thematically speaking, to the extent that I even fully grasped what was happening (which would be a lie), I really liked what was going on. Poetic and engaging de-intellectualisation of God. Much more heavily focused on the feeling of, and that is, God, an idea which I personally find much more appealing than the tradish. God speaking to you through the stone into which you are carving, and in so doing granting Him freedom. God as the clouds simply joining you for some story time. And my favourite, God materialised into a thimble at the decree of some schoolchildren who make this possible simply by believing.
The overarching ‘plot’ in between various either painfully metaphorical or confusingly literal stories, both of which I’ll add I enjoyed, was as concise as needed to be to not detract attention from the clearly impact subject.
Despite the quote above, my only disappointment was I guess I was expecting some more flowery and colourful stuff from za greyt Rilke yah.
Overall cold vibes. Ngl I finished the book, a fly landed on my hand and we shared a pretty special moment (in a super macho and alpha way)
notice it, must not remain in trees and on the meadows; it must somehow manifest itself in man, for then it comes to pass, as it were, not within the limits of time, but rather in eternity and in God’s presence.’
3.5
Thematically speaking, to the extent that I even fully grasped what was happening (which would be a lie), I really liked what was going on. Poetic and engaging de-intellectualisation of God. Much more heavily focused on the feeling of, and that is, God, an idea which I personally find much more appealing than the tradish. God speaking to you through the stone into which you are carving, and in so doing granting Him freedom. God as the clouds simply joining you for some story time. And my favourite, God materialised into a thimble at the decree of some schoolchildren who make this possible simply by believing.
The overarching ‘plot’ in between various either painfully metaphorical or confusingly literal stories, both of which I’ll add I enjoyed, was as concise as needed to be to not detract attention from the clearly impact subject.
Despite the quote above, my only disappointment was I guess I was expecting some more flowery and colourful stuff from za greyt Rilke yah.
Overall cold vibes. Ngl I finished the book, a fly landed on my hand and we shared a pretty special moment (in a super macho and alpha way)
October 14, 2012
It's a beautiful little book, reuniting a bunch of stories about God and various parts of his body.
I am not a religious person. In fact I think I'm on of those hardcore atheists that think religion is full of crap and would much rather spend their time believing in science which always seems to make so much more sense. However, this is a book for anyone.
It's mainly meant for children, so of course it's a pretty easy and quick read. I'd give this a try if you ever come across it.
I am not a religious person. In fact I think I'm on of those hardcore atheists that think religion is full of crap and would much rather spend their time believing in science which always seems to make so much more sense. However, this is a book for anyone.
It's mainly meant for children, so of course it's a pretty easy and quick read. I'd give this a try if you ever come across it.
October 15, 2020
Rilke ci presenta, in tredici racconti brevi, il Dio delle piccole cose, addirittura in una storia Egli si trova in un ditale. Come ci ripete ad ogni fine racconto egli stesso «Narrate ai grandi perché le ripetano ai bambini».
Il Dio che ci presenta il poeta è un Dio umanissimo, pieno di difetti: si addormenta, si arrabbia, ma anche sorride e scherza.
In conclusione, egli ci fa capire che solo i bambini e gli artisti possono rivelare a Dio com'è fatto l'uomo, e all'uomo com'è fatto Dio.
Il Dio che ci presenta il poeta è un Dio umanissimo, pieno di difetti: si addormenta, si arrabbia, ma anche sorride e scherza.
In conclusione, egli ci fa capire che solo i bambini e gli artisti possono rivelare a Dio com'è fatto l'uomo, e all'uomo com'è fatto Dio.
December 17, 2024
La pausada, prolija prosa de Rilke hace que, en cada uno de los cuentos, entremos como en una ensoñación: poco a poco se deja sentir la inmersión en la trama, en los diálogos, en las imágenes.
Estos relatos nos permiten contemplar, con quietud y parsimonia, lo que los creyentes viven (o dicen vivir; uno que es incrédulo los mira por el rabillo del ojo).
Estos relatos nos permiten contemplar, con quietud y parsimonia, lo que los creyentes viven (o dicen vivir; uno que es incrédulo los mira por el rabillo del ojo).
April 14, 2019
Ζεστό βιβλίο, μια διαφορετική σειρά παραβολών για τον Θεό. Μπορεί να σας ξενίσει, αλλά ο Ριλκε παραμένει κορυφαίος αφηγητής ακόμα και πολύ νέος.
September 21, 2021
Zitat(e):
"Aber gebt nun mal acht: was tun unsere Eltern? Sie gehen mit bösen gekränkten Gesichtern umher, nichts ist ihnen recht, sie schreien und schelten, aber dabei sind sie doch so gleichgültig, und wenn die Welt unterginge, sie würden es kaum bemerken. Sie haben etwas, was sie «Ideale» nennen. Vielleicht ist das auch so eine Art kleine Kinder, die nicht alleine bleiben dürfen und sehr viel Mühe machen; aber dann hätten sie eben uns nicht haben dürfen. Nun, ich denke so, Kinder: daß Eltern uns vernachlässigen, ist traurig, gewiß. Aber wir dürfen es dennoch ertragen, wenn es nicht ein Beweis wäre dafür, daß die Großen überhaupt dumm werden, zurückgehen, wenn man so sagen darf. Wir können ihren Verfall nicht aufhalten; denn wir können den ganzen Tag keinen Einfluß auf sie ausüben, und kommen wir spät aus der Schule nach Haus, wird kein Mensch verlangen, daß wir uns hinsetzen und versuchen, sie für etwas Vernünftiges zu interessieren. Es tut einem auch recht weh, wenn man so unter der Lampe sitzt und die Mutter begreift nicht einmal den pythagoräischen Lehrsatz. (...) So werden die Großen immer dümmer werden (...) Sie ziehen den Hut voreinander, und wenn eine Glatze dabei zum Vorschein kommt, so lachen sie." (69)
"Aber gebt nun mal acht: was tun unsere Eltern? Sie gehen mit bösen gekränkten Gesichtern umher, nichts ist ihnen recht, sie schreien und schelten, aber dabei sind sie doch so gleichgültig, und wenn die Welt unterginge, sie würden es kaum bemerken. Sie haben etwas, was sie «Ideale» nennen. Vielleicht ist das auch so eine Art kleine Kinder, die nicht alleine bleiben dürfen und sehr viel Mühe machen; aber dann hätten sie eben uns nicht haben dürfen. Nun, ich denke so, Kinder: daß Eltern uns vernachlässigen, ist traurig, gewiß. Aber wir dürfen es dennoch ertragen, wenn es nicht ein Beweis wäre dafür, daß die Großen überhaupt dumm werden, zurückgehen, wenn man so sagen darf. Wir können ihren Verfall nicht aufhalten; denn wir können den ganzen Tag keinen Einfluß auf sie ausüben, und kommen wir spät aus der Schule nach Haus, wird kein Mensch verlangen, daß wir uns hinsetzen und versuchen, sie für etwas Vernünftiges zu interessieren. Es tut einem auch recht weh, wenn man so unter der Lampe sitzt und die Mutter begreift nicht einmal den pythagoräischen Lehrsatz. (...) So werden die Großen immer dümmer werden (...) Sie ziehen den Hut voreinander, und wenn eine Glatze dabei zum Vorschein kommt, so lachen sie." (69)
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