Thank you very much for your stimulating letter and for seeking my advice. As I understand you’ve been quite particular with your selection, I am honoured to be chosen and delighted that my words have moved and inspired you. Of course, when you die, you quite expect that one day you’ll be forgot. So, indeed, I am chuffed!
Of course, being underground, I miss nature’s beauty, especially that burst of vibrant colour each Spring. How I loved reading Mogens by Jens Peter Jacobsen and his rich descriptions of the trees, their leaves and all their infinitesimal detail. Alas, now I must rely on memory and pictures painted in my head.
I am not lonely here. The worms bring me leaves and their stories and dead poets know how to talk what with Dorothy Parker and her friends at the Algonquin Round Table and Keats and his Royal Society of Dead Poets. So, “If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for the Creator, there is no poverty”.
Yet, your letter brought much joy and I thank you for your great and welcome trust.
As far as to whether my advice to young poets is still useful, I’ll leave that up to you. It’s been some time since I’ve stuck my head above ground. However, despite the grave perils of becoming a poet, I’ll reiterate my advice to young Kappus:
“Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.
This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose…”
By the way, as a violinist, I knew you would appreciate this poem:
At The Brink Of Night
My room and this distance,
awake upon the darkening land,
are one. I am a string
stretched across deep
Things are violin bodies
full of murmuring darkness,
where women’s weeping dreams,
where the rancor of whole generations
stirs in its sleep . . .
I should release
my silver vibrations: then
everything below me will live,
and whatever strays into things
will seek the light
that falls without end from my dancing tone
into the old abysses
around which heaven swells
Rainer Maria Rilke
Lastly, I encourage you to keep asking questions:
“Live your questions now, and perhaps even without knowing it, you will live along some distant day into your answers.”
Rainer Maria Rilke
Anyway, you must leave. Your train is now due to depart.
Rainer Maria Rainer.
 Rainer Maria Rilke: Letters To A Young Poet, Dover Publication, 2002 p. 12.