There are few things in life more distressing than a lost book.
I am not exaggerating.
Tonight, taking the advice of cousin Jef, I scoured my bookshelves looking for Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet. Jef suggested that it might give solace to my loneliness and resolve to my doubting and weary heart--also not exaggerating--so, I went in search of it, to no avail.
The longer I looked, the more the text came back to me, lines that I love, wisdom that I savor, strings of words that I like to hold in my hands and turn in the light looking for all the new ways that my life is reflected in them. This lost book is like a lost friend, a dearly anticipated and much treasured companion who refused to show in a crucial moment of need.
I feel deserted.
I feel aimless.
I looked for a substitution among my stacks, another well-loved text whose prose could anchor me to this earth and soothe my anxieties. Finding, none, I sat down to write. I hoped in vain that my own words could satisfy the need I have for this one particular work. In literature and in life sometimes you have to be your own muse and your own dearest companion.
Tonight, I need Rilke.
