The hour is growing late on a Sunday night. I will have to report to school at 7:35. My classes have been prepared, and I am enjoying the cool breezes in downtown Fort Worth’s Sundance Square. I just read one of Rilke’s letters from 1911, and it has left me shuddering. I share it with you now:
However vast the “outer space” may be, with all its sidereal distances it hardly bears comparison with the dimensions, with the depth dimensions of our inner being, which does not even need the spaciousness of the universe to be within itself almost unfathomable. Thus, if the dead, if those who are to come, need an abode, what refuge could be more agreeable and appointed for them then this imaginary space? To me it seems more and more as though our customary consciousness lives on the tip of a pyramid whose base within us (and in a certain way beneath us) widens out so fully that the farther we find ourselves able to descend into it, the more generally we appear to be merged into these things that, independent of time and space, are given in our earthly, in the widest sense worldly, existence.
I think I will write this on my classroom whiteboard in the morning.