Essay

Read Rilke and Weep

For his genius, for his ravishment

Rilke, the source of my woe. Photo, author’s own

I’m used to adversity: I’m a vegan. The standards I uphold can be heavy to bear—sorely tested in a restaurant when faced with the prospect of no dessert. You try watching others sink their spoons into Panna cotta and tiramisu while you sip a mint tea. It’s not pleasant.

Beyond such woes, the judgements and outright animosities of non-vegans can be heavier to withstand.

But regardless of others, I keep my principles centre stage and am steadfast in my belief that animals, like humans, have only one life, and like humans, they would like to live that life.

Being a vegan has made me resilient. A quality needed when one is a writer. Writing, like veganism, requires tenacity and adherence and doggedness—especially when the sentences aren’t coming and ideas are elusive.

Writing and veganism are both things I believe in, both things that make me feel I am doing what I was meant to do.

But this week one person has undone my writing fortitude:

Rilke.

I’m reading his novel, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge.

Only 11 pages in, and I’m stunned, astounded, or as Wodehouse would say, S to the C*.