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Slowly But Surely I Have Been Soaking Rilke Up These Last Few Months: The Man, His Work And His Life. And That Is Probably The Only Right Way With Literature, With Study, With People Or With Anything Else: To Let It All Soak In, To Let It All Mature Slowly Inside You Until It Has Become A Part Of Yourself. That, Too, Is A Growing Process. Everything Is A Growing Process. And In Between, Emotions And Sensations That Strike You Like Lightning. But Still The Most Important Thing Is The Organic Process Of Growing.

-Etty Hillesum

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Slowly But Surely I

Etty Hillesum

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Slowly But Surely I Have Been Soaking Rilke Up These Last Few Months: The Man, His Work And His Life. And That Is Probably The Only Right Way With Literature, With Study, With People Or With Anything Else: To Let It All Soak In, To Let It All Mature Slowly Inside You Until It Has Become A Part Of Yourself. That, Too, Is A Growing Process. Everything Is A Growing Process. And In Between, Emotions And Sensations That Strike You Like Lightning. But Still The Most Important Thing Is The Organic Process Of Growing.

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There Are Moments When I Feel Like Giving Up Or Giving In, But I Soon Rally Again And Do My Duty As I See It: To Keep The Spark Of Life Inside Me Ablaze.

When I Pray, I Never Pray For Myself, Always For Others, Or Else I Hold A Silly, Naive, Or Deadly Serious Dialogue With What Is Deepest Inside Me, Which For The Sake Of Convenience I Call God. Praying To God For Something For Yourself Strikes Me As Being Too Childish For Words. To Pray For Another's Well-being Is Something I Find Childish As Well; One Should Only Pray That Another Should Have Enough Strength To Shoulder His Burden. If You Do That, You Lend Him Some Of Your Own Strength.

That I Should Die Next Week, I Would Still Be Able To Sit At My Desk All Week And Study With Perfect Equanimity, For I Know Now That Life And Death Make A Meaningful Whole.

We Have To Fight Them Daily, Like Fleas, Those Many Small Worries About The Morrow, For They Sap Our Energies. We Make Mental Provisions For The Days To Come, And Everything Turns Out Differently, Quite Differently. Sufficient Unto The Day. The Things That Have To Be Done Must Be Done, And For The Rest We Must Not Allow Ourselves To Become Infested With Thousands Of Petty Fears And Worries.

Life Is Good, After All...and That's What Stays With Me, Even Now, Even When I'm About To Be Packed Off To Poland.

Despite Everything, Life Is Full Of Beauty And Meaning.

Never Give Up, Never Escape, Take Everything In, And Perhaps Suffer, That's Not Too Awful Either, But Never, Never Give Up.

Such Words As 'god' And 'death' And 'suffering' And 'eternity' Are Best Forgotten. We Have To Become As Simple And As Wordless As The Growing Corn Or The Falling Rain. We Must Just Be.

Here, Beside This Great Black Surface That Is My Desk, I Feel As Though I Am On A Desert Island.

How Rash To Assert That Man Shapes His Own Destiny. All He Can Do Is Determine His Inner Responses.

The Externals Are Simply So Many Props; Everything We Need Is Within Us.

We Should Be Willing To Act As A Balm For All Wounds.

Ought We Not, From Time To Time, Open Ourselves Up To Cosmic Sadness? ... Give Your Sorrow All The Space And Shelter In Yourself That Is Its Due, For If Everyone Bears His Grief Honestly And Courageously, The Sorrow That Now Fills The World Will Abate. But If You Do Not Clear A Decent Shelter For Your Sorrow, And Instead Reserve Most Of The Space Inside You For Hatred And Thoughts Of Revenge-from Which New Sorrows Will Be Born For Others-then Sorrow Will Never Cease In This World And Will Multiply.

Sometimes I Feel That Every Word Spoken And Every Gesture Made Merely Serve To Exacerbate Misunderstandings. Then What I Would Really Like Is To Escape Into A Great Silence And Impose That Silence On Everyone Else.

Every Word Born Of An Inner Necessity - Writing Must Never Be Anything Else.

And Now That I Don't Want To Own Anything Any More And Am Free, Now I Suddenly Own Everything, Now My Inner Riches Are Immeasurable.

I'm Afraid I Did Not Pray Hard Enough Last Night.

That Fear Of Missing Out On Things Makes You Miss Out On Everything.

Our Desire Must Be Like A Slow And Stately Ship, Sailing Across Endless Oceans, Never In Search Of Safe Anchorage. Then Suddenly, Unexpectedly, It Will Find Mooring For A Moment.

A Desire To Kneel Down Sometimes Pulses Through My Body, Or Rather It Is As If My Body Has Been Meant And Made For The Act Of Kneeling. Sometimes, In Moments Of Deep Gratitude, Kneeling Down Becomes An Overwhelming Urge, Head Deeply Bowed, Hands Before My Face.

Overwhelming Urge

We Human Beings Cause Monstrous Conditions, But Precisely Because We Cause Them We Soon Learn To Adapt Ourselves To Them. Only If We Become Such That We Can No Longer Adapt Ourselves, Only If, Deep Inside, We Rebel Against Every Kind Of Evil, Will We Be Able To Put A Stop To It. ... While Everything Within Us Does Not Yet Scream Out In Protest, So Long Will We Find Ways Of Adapting Ourselves, And The Horrors Will Continue.

I Keep Remembering From My Early Student Days How I Would Walk At Night Through The Streets, My Hands Bunched Into Fists In The Pocket Of My Coat, My Head Hunched Deep Into My Collar, And How I Used To Say, 'i Want To Work, I Shall Work'--and Then I Would Come Back Home And Be So Exhausted By My Determination That I Had No Strength Left To Do The Actual Work.

I Think What Weakens People Most Is Fear Of Wasting Their Strength.

Everything Is Chance, Or Nothing Is Chance. If I Believed The First, I Would Be Unable To Live On, But I Am Not Yet Fully Convinced Of The Second.

All Disasters Stem From Us. Why Is There A War? Perhaps Because Now And Then I Might Be Inclined To Snap At My Neighbour. Because I And My Neighbour And Everyone Else Do Not Have Enough Love. Yet We Could Fight War And All Its Excrescences By Releasing Each Day, The Love Which Is Shackled Inside Us, And Giving It A Chance To Live.

Before, I Always Lived In Anticipation . . . That It Was All A Preparation For Something Else, Something "greater," More "genuine." But That Feeling Has Dropped Away From Me Completely. I Live Here And Now, This Minute, This Day, To The Full, And The Life Is Worth Living.

I Feel Like A Small Battlefield In Which The Problems, Or Some Of The Problems, Of Our Time Are Being Fought Out. All One Can Hope To Do Is Keep Oneself Humbly Available, To Allow Oneself To Be A Battlefield. After All, The Problems Must Be Accommodated, Have Somewhere To Struggle And Come To Rest And We, Poor Little Humans, Must Put Our Inner Space At Their Service And Not Run Away.

By 'coming To Terms With Life' I Mean: The Reality Of Death Has Become A Definite Part Of My Life; My Life Has, So To Speak, Been Extended By Death, By My Looking Death In The Eye And Accepting It, By Accepting Destruction As Part Of Life And No Longer Wasting My Energies On Fear Of Death Or The Refusal To Acknowledge Its Inevitability. It Sounds Paradoxical: By Excluding Death From Our Life We Cannot Live A Full Life, And By Admitting Death Into Our Life We Enlarge And Enrich It.

After Each Creative Act One Has To Be Sustained By One's Strength Of Character, By A Moral Sense, By I Don't Know What, Lest One Tumble.

If One Finds The Strength To Deal With Small Things, One Finds It To Deal With The Large Ones As Well.

Sometimes The Most Important Thing In A Whole Day Is The Rest We Take Between Two Deep Breaths, Or The Turning Inwards In Prayer For Five Short Minutes.

Each Of Us Must Turn Inward And Destroy In Himself All That He Thinks He Ought To Destroy In Others.

I Really See No Other Solution Than To Turn Inwards And To Root Out All The Rottenness There. I No Longer Believe That We Can Change Anything In The World Until We First Change Ourselves. And That Seems To Me The Only Lesson To Be Learned.

Lessons To Be Learned

Sometimes I Try My Hand At Turning Out Small Profundities And Uncertain Short Stories, But I Always End Up With Just One Single Word: God.

I Would Be So Exhausted By My Determination That I Had No Strength Left To Do The Actual Work.

The More Peace There Is In Us, The More Peace There Will Be In Our Troubled World.

Every Day I Shall Put My Papers In Order And Every Day I Shall Say Farewell. And The Real Farewell, When It Comes, Will Only Be A Small Outward Confirmation Of What Has Been Accomplished Within Me From Day To Day.

Slowly But Surely I Have Been Soaking Rilke Up These Last Few Months: The Man, His Work And His Life. And That Is Probably The Only Right Way With Literature, With Study, With People Or With Anything Else: To Let It All Soak In, To Let It All Mature Slowly Inside You Until It Has Become A Part Of Yourself. That, Too, Is A Growing Process. Everything Is A Growing Process. And In Between, Emotions And Sensations That Strike You Like Lightning. But Still The Most Important Thing Is The Organic Process Of Growing.

To Live Fully, Outwardly And Inwardly, Not To Ignore The External Reality For The Sake Of The Inner Life, Or The Reverse, That's Quite A Task

If One Burdens The Future With One's Worries, It Cannot Grow Organically. I Am Filled With Confidence, Not That I Shall Succeed In Worldly Things, But That Even When Things Go Badly For Me I Shall Still Find Life Good And Worth Living.

A Large Group Of Us Were Crowded Into The Gestapo Hall, And At That Moment The Circumstances Of All Our Lives Were The Same. All Of Us Occupied The Same Space, The Men Behind The Desk No Less Than Those About To Be Questioned. What Distinguished Each Of Us Was Only Our Inner Attitude.

Most People Write Off Their Longing For Friends And Family As So Many Losses In Their Lives, When They Should Count The Fact That Their Heart Is Able To Long So Hard And To Love So Much As Among Their Greatest Blessings.

Ultimately, We Have Just One Moral Duty: To Reclaim Large Areas Of Peace In Ourselves, More And More Peace, And To Reflect It Towards Others. And The More Peace There Is In Us, The More Peace There Will Be In Our Troubled World.

I Do Believe It Is Possible To Create, Even Without Ever Writing A Word Or Painting A Picture, By Simply Molding One’s Inner Life. And That Too Is A Deed.

And I Believe That I Will Never Be Able To Hate Any Human Being For His So-called 'wickedness,' That I Shall Only Hate The Evil That Is Within Me, Though Hate Is Perhaps Putting It Too Strongly Even Then. In Any Case, We Cannot Be Lax Enough In What We Demand Of Others And Strict Enough In What We Demand Of Ourselves.

We Have To Fight Them Daily, Lake Fleas, Those Many Small Worries About The Morrow, For They Sap Our Energies.

The Fact Is I Don't Lead A Simple Enough Inner Life. I Indulge In Excesses, Bacchanalia Of The Spirit. Perhaps I Identify Too Much With Everything I Read And Study. Someone Like Dostoevsky Still Shatters Me.

Sometimes My Day Is Crammed Full Of People And Talk And Yet I Have The Feeling Of Living In Utter Peace And Quiet. And The Tree Outside My Window, In The Evenings, Is A Greater Experience Than All Those People Put Together.

I Know And Share The Many Sorrows A Human Being Can Experience, But I Do Not Cling To Them; They Pass Through Me, Like Life Itself, As A Broad Eternal Stream...and Life Continues.

Life Cannot Be Captured In A Few Axioms. And That Is Just What I Keep Trying To Do. But It Won't Work, For Life Is Full Of Endless Nuances And Cannot Be Captured In Just A Few Formulae.

Suffering Has Always Been With Us; Does It Really Matter In What Form It Comes? All That Matters Is How We Bear It And How We Fit It Into Our Lives.

Sometimes I Long For A Convent Cell, With The Sublime Wisdom Of Centuries Set Out On Bookshelves All Along The Wall And A View Across The Cornfields--there Must Be Cornfields And They Must Wave In The Breeze--and There I Would Immerse Myself In The Wisdom Of The Ages And In Myself. Then I Might Perhaps Find Peace And Clarity. But That Would Be No Great Feat. It Is Right Here, In This Very Place, In The Here And The Now, That I Must Find Them.

Thinking Gets You Nowhere. It May Be A Fine And Noble Aid In Academic Studies, But You Can't Think Your Way Out Of Emotional Difficulties. That Takes Something Altogether Different. You Have To Make Yourself Passive Then, And Just Listen. Re-establish Contact With A Slice Of Eternity.

One Must Also Accept That One Has 'uncreative' Moments. The More Honestly One Can Accept That, The Quicker These Moments Will Pass.

I Don’t Want To Be Anything Special. I Only Want To Try To Be True To That In Me Which Seeks To Fulfill Its Promise.

Become Simple And Live Simply, Not Only Within Yourself But Also In Your Everyday Dealings. Don’t Make Ripples All Around You, Don’t Try To Be Interesting, Keep Your Distance, Be Honest, Fight The Desire To Be Thought Fascinating By The Outside World.

As Life Becomes Harder And More Threatening, It Also Becomes Richer, Because The Fewer Expectations We Have, The More Good Things Of Life Become Unexpected Gifts That We Accept With Gratitude.

Unexpected Gifts

Greed Probably Figures In My Intellectual Life As Well, As I Attempt To Absorb A Massive Amount Of Information With Consequent Mental Indigestion.

I Don't Think I Have Nerves Of Steel, Far From It, But I Can Certainly Stand Up To Things. I Am Not Afraid To Look Suffering Straight In The Eyes.

It Is The Only Thing We Can Do. Each Of Us Must Turn Inward And Destroy In Himself All That He Thinks He Ought To Destroy In Others. And Remember That Every Atom Of Hate That We Add To This World Makes It Sill More Inhospitable

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