Rilke’s Book of Hours will tear me to shreds. I know this from just the few samples I’ve read in the introduction. His subtitle is Love Poems to God, but these are no sentimental musings. They pierce my skin and worm their way into my flesh. I’ll never be rid of them, never be the same after I read them. Change is coming, for good or ill, whether I like it or not.
I’m not ready for this. Not strong enough yet. And you know that. But here is the book you’ve placed in my hands, and there you are, unmoved by my pleas and complaints.
Very well. Let’s begin.
