When Rilke talks about God I have no idea
what to say. It's like being buttonholed at a party
by someone who wrongly assumes you share
the urgency of their political convictions,
their devotion to a cause and its glorious leader,
a man of catastrophically dangerous power.
Time to fill your drink, grab some salted almonds.
But then he talks about art in the same voice,
and I come to see that to him they are one
and the same, aspects of an indivisible fire,
facets of a singular jewel, and I can understand
where he is coming from, I have anecdotes
to supply, grievances to air, a savvy joke,
some watercooler wisdom. And so we part
if not as friends, then, contented acquaintances.
[Campbell McGrath {1962- } 'Rilke and God', from Seven Notebooks]
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