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Letters on Cézanne, by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Rilke's prayerful responses to the french master's beseeching art
For a long time nothing, and then suddenly one has the right eyes.
Virtually every day in the fall of 1907, Rainer Maria Rilke returned to a Paris gallery to view a Cezanne exhibition. Nearly as frequently, he wrote dense and joyful letters to his wife, Clara Westhoff, expressing his dismay before the paintings and his ensuing revelations about art and life.
Rilke was knowledgeable about art and had even published monographs, including a famous study of Rodin that inspired his New Poems. But Cezanne's impact on him could not be conveyed in a traditional essay. Rilke's sense of kinship with Cezanne provides a powerful and prescient undercurrent in these letters -- passages from them appear verbatim in Rilke's great modernist novel, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. Letters on Cezanne is a collection of meaningfully private responses to a radically new art.
- Sales Rank: #212088 in Books
- Brand: Brand: North Point Press
- Published on: 2002-09-15
- Released on: 2002-09-15
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.50" h x .27" w x 5.50" l, .15 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 112 pages
Features
- Used Book in Good Condition
From Library Journal
These letters to his wife were written by Rilke on a sojourn to Paris in 1907, where he found himself drawn to the Grand Palais every day to see a posthumous exhibit of Cezanne's paintings, staged one year after the French painter's death. Many of the letters are included in day-by-day succession, as Rilke outlines his deep affinity to Cezanne, as well as to van Gogh, in exquisite detail. Agee succeeds in capturing Rilke's instinct for language; we see the painters through Rilke's eyes as dedicated and committed to making paintings that stretch the viewer's imagination and capacity for devotion. This slender volume lacks illustrations, which would have been useful. Some of these letters appeared in Rilke's later masterwork, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge (first published in English in 1952). Saying as much about Rilke as it does about Cezanne, this new volume is particularly suited to literature collections containing other works by Rilke and may be of interest in art schools and public libraries where there is an interest in Cezanne and van Gogh.
Ellen Bates, New York
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Review
“The greatness of Cezanne could be conveyed only by an artist equally great.” ―Howard Moss, The New Yorker
About the Author
Rainer Maria Rilke was born in Prague in 1875 and traveled throughout Europe for much of his adult life, returning frequently to Paris. There he came under the influence of the sculptor Auguste Rodin and produced much of his finest verse, most notably the two volumes of New Poems as well as the great modernist novel The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. Among his other books of poems are The Book of Images and The Book of Hours. He lived the last years of his life in Switzerland, where he completed his two poetic masterworks, the Duino Elegies and Sonnets to Orpheus. He died of leukemia in December 1926.
Joel Agee has also translated Elias Canetti, Friedrich Dürenmatt, Gottfried Benn, and another collection of Rilke's letters, Rilke and Benvenuta: An Intimate Correspondence. He won the Helen and Kurt Wolff Translator's Prize for his translation of Heinrich von Kleist's Penthesilea, a verse play. He is the author of Twelve Years: An American Boyhood in East Germany and lives in Brooklyn.
Most helpful customer reviews
18 of 19 people found the following review helpful.
Letters about the spirituality of art
By Boris Bangemann
The encounter with the work of Cezanne was one of the milestones in the life of the poet Rilke. The letters which are collected here show why. Rilke, like Cezanne, was a man who was religious in an unconventional way. He was not interested in any particular concept of God, but in the process of discerning the divine in the sheer existence of things as they are: "All talk is misunderstanding. Insight is just in work." What he admired most in Cezanne's work was his "devout objectivity", the ability to let objects speak for themselves without the intellectual interference by the artist and without preconceived notions. Rilke felt that when Cezanne painted the mountain Sainte Victoire, for example, he wanted to show the essence of the mountain, the mountain pure and simple, nothing more, nothing less.
The German edition of the Letters on Cezanne contains an excellent afterword which quotes the philosopher Martin Heidegger who wrote, "we come too late for the Gods, and too early for being," meaning we do not live in the safety of believing in the Gods any more, and we do not trust in simply being yet. Rilke was acutely aware of this state of suspension, and the collection of his letters on Cezanne gives us an idea of how Rilke as an artist intended to make sense of this life in suspension.
9 of 10 people found the following review helpful.
How to create in seeing as poet and artist
By Shalom Freedman
Rilke understands Cezanne as one ' who lived in the innermost center of his work for forty years'. The old man who he describes being thrown stones at by children on his way to his studio where he worked and worked, and only worked from the time he found his vocation at the age of thirty, is the example to Rilke of the totally dedicated artist. This artist has that kind of patience which slowly lets his work enfold, layer upon layer. In this as always with Rilke remarkably beautiful and haunting collection of letters he tells of his encounter with the work of Cezanne and how the true artist brings into fuller being the object he sees and creates. Rilke is quoted in the introduction as he talks of " the scales of an infinitely responsive conscience.. which so incorruptibly reduced a reality to its color content that that reality resumed a new existence in a beyond of color, without any previous memories".
This statement so suggestive is typical of the Rilkean text which seems like poetry itself to offer more meanings than any single reading can grasp.
My brief remarks comment upon a few of those suggestions. I believe readers of this work will be inspired to seeing , reading, and in their own minds through the reading, creating of their own on a higher level.
3 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
Rilke has a meticulously observant and poetic style, a romance unparalleled
By Anna Vincent
I read excerpts of this eight years ago; I read the whole book four years ago, and I since revisit it whenever I can. It’s Rilke’s writings to his wife, Clara Rilke.
He has a meticulously observant and poetic style--a romance--that is absolutely unparalleled.
Below I analyze two of my favorite letters, with a focus on style.
PARIS VIe, 29, RUE CASSETTE,
SEPTEMBER 13, 1907 (FRIDAY)
…Never have I been so touched and almost moved by the sight of heather as the other day, when I found these three branches in your dear letter. Since then they have been lying in my Book of Images, penetrating it with their strong and serious smell(1), which is really just the fragrance of autumn earth. But how glorious it is, this fragrance. At no other time, it seems to me, does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste(2), and more than honeysweet where you feel it is close to touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost(3), and yet again wind; tar and turpentine and Ceylon tea. Serious and lowly like the smell of a begging monk and yet again hearty and resinous like precious incense. And the way they look: like embroidery, splendid; like three cypresses woven into a Persian rug with violet silk (a violet of such vehement moistness, as if it were the complementary color of the sun)(4). You should see this. I don’t believe these little twigs could have been so beautiful when you sent them; otherwise you would have expressed so astonishment about them(5). Right now one of them happens to be lying on the dark-blue velvet in an old pen-and-pencil box. It’s like a firework: well no, it’s really like a Persian rug. Are all these millions of little branches really so wonderfully wrought? Just look(6) at the radiance of this green which contains a little gold, and the sandalwood warmth of the brown in the little stems, and that fissure with its new, fresh, inner barely-green. –Ah, I’ve been admiring the splendor of these little fragments for days and am truly ashamed that I was not happy when I was permitted to walk about in a superabundance of these. One lives so badly, because one always comes into the present unfinished, unable, distracted(7). I cannot think back on any time of my life without such reproaches and worse. I believe that the only time I lived without loss were the ten days after Ruth’s birth [his daughter], when I found reality as indescribable, down to the smallest details, as it surely always is. –But presumably I would not be so receptive to the splendor of these little pieces of heather stemming from the extravagance of the northern year if I hadn’t just gotten over an urban summer(8). Perhaps, then, it wasn’t completely in vain that I lived through the sort of cubicled summer where you’re lodged as if in the smallest of those boxes that fit one into the other, twenty times. And you’re sitting in the last one, crouching. Good God: how I labored last year; oceans, parks, woods, forest meadows: my longing for these is indescribably sometimes. Those vaporous mornings(9) and evenings are already starting, where the sun is merely the place where the sun used to be, and where in the yards all the summer flowers, the dahlias and the tall gladiolas and the long rows of geraniums shout the contradiction of their red into the mist. This makes me sad. It brings up desolate memoirs, one doesn’t know why: as if the music of the urban summer were ending in dissonance, in a mutiny of all its notes; perhaps just because one has already once before taken all this so deeply into oneself and read its meanings and made it part of oneself, without ever actually making it.
Only this… for Sunday…
(p. 9-11)
(1) This description lends to what you do when you smell something overpowering, you’re taken back by it. “Serious” also draws the reader’s attention more, as the word serious, written amongst a flow of more peaceful words, almost says to the reader “this is serious now, pay attention.”
(2) Here he’s describing the extreme of the smell, comparing it to the sea while making you think of the sea. He’s adding another sense too—taste. I love this writing.
(3) Here he references the earth again, and grave makes us think of dirt but also again of something serious. Rilke was a clever writer.
(4) He’s combining color and tactile sense now, with violet and moistness. With “a complimentary color of the sun” we now have two colors in mind—violet and yellow—and from the word sun the idea again of an overpowering intensity. This is how Rilke feels while writing this. But, like the sun, his intensity is not always shining on this topic, as we see soon when he says how he didn’t notice or appreciate the heather before.
(5) This is a little comical to me, as if he stands back for a moment and recognizes his own intensity, sort of laughs at it, then is re-convinced that it’s warranted, and says “astonishment.”
(6) Now he’s gotten so carried away he talks as if she’s there with him.
(7) Now this is serious. He suddenly makes a poignant psychological-philosophical observation. In the previous sentence he says he feels ashamed. Knowing these little pieces of heather to their depths has made him emotional, which speaks to their beauty and their and his intensity.
(8) I like northern year and urban summer.
(9) Vaporous mornings I like as well. These are descriptors before the main word but they work well.
PARIS VIe, 29, RUE CASSETTE,
ON SUNDAY [SEPTEMBER 29, 1907]
…What you experienced with the Portuguese grape(1) is something I know so well: I am feeling it simultaneously in two pomegranates I recently bought from Potin; how glorious(2) they are in the massive heaviness(3), with the curved ornament of the pistil still on the top(4); princely in their golden skins(5) with the red undercoat showing through, strong and genuine, like the leather of old Cordovan tapestries(6). I have not yet tried to open them; they probably aren’t ripe yet. When they are, I believe they easily burst of their own fullness(7) and have slits with purple linings, like noblemen in grand apparel(8).—Looking at them, I too felt rising up within me the desire and presentiment of things foreign and southerly, and the lure of long voyages(9). But then, how much all of that is already within one, and how much more so when closing one’s eyes tightly; I felt it again when I wrote the Corrida, which I had never seen: how I knew and how I saw it all! … (p. 13)
(1) This is such an interesting start to me. She is like him then, it implies, in that they both become sensually enamored by nature and then describe it to one another. I like his word “experienced,” rather than observed or witnessed or recalled; it’s more in depth and allows for a full sensory “experience.”
(2) He simply says “glorious” and his voice is to be trusted. He balances that, though, with very detailed descriptions.
(3) I like “massive heaviness.” A double description. I can feel the weight of a pomegranate in each hand, weighing my hands down like to metal weight balls. Massive heaviness is when you lift something and its heavier than expected, it takes you by surprise.
(4) Ornament is another word in the category of princely and noblemen. He ties everything about the fruit into a comparison of a nobleman.
(5) Princely, golden…
(6) Cordovan is a heavier word, and noble-sounding, and it works well here. Leather I like too; they’re skins, just as the fruit skins are.
(7) These pomegranates can’t sustain their own intensity, he’s saying. And, by metaphor, the princes are so full of themselves they burst open. This is comical.
(8) He could have chosen other words instead of grand and apparel, but these words have a richness to them. Not merely clothes, but grand apparel.
(9) I do not understand his point here—how does this tie in? I do like the idea that he’s gotten so carried away, lost in his senses, that he’s put himself in a dreamlike state and started to imagine long voyages simply out of wanderlust.
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