What remains for us, then, to our house, this “world interpreted" where we cannot feel too safe? Homelessness and ephemeral things like us, "one tree hill, which we looked all day, the street of yesterday, and delayed the loyalty of a habit, which liked and did not leave and stay."
I look out the window the castle of Duino and see down a hill cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. There is a hackberry. This makes me the street from my childhood, now, surrounded by portraits of those aristocrats of the nineteenth century, so carefully dressed and who did much damage in Europe with their habits, leading to the First World War.
And Rilke: "Oh, and the night, when the wind / full of outer space hits our face."
It’s almost noon of spring, full of light and heat, of birds and flowers: the contrast between winter nights in this castle loneliness, cold and darkness, inhabited by a full force of the vastness of the being so hostile to us, leaving the lonely heart sleepless. The wind of the night revealed the fullness of being in outer space, from where are the angels, and the terrible existential destitution of all men. We do not have durability and proper, we are nothing. And the angels are necessarily for us "mysterium tremendum", because the beauty of them is our antithesis.
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