Rainer Maria Rilke

What would the Intellectual Pineapple make of Rainer Maria Rilke, I wonder?

Unfortunately, it will be hard to find out, as there is only a quarter of him left, but we can try.

Pineapple, what do you think of Rilke?

..t ...ch! Brr...

This isn't working. However I may be able to channel him.....

Yes.....he's coming through....

Hello.....I am the Intellectual Pineapple......do you have a question for me?

Yes. What do you think of Rainer Maria Rilke?

That depends. Is she a woman with a man's name or a man with a woman's name?

He is a man with a man's name. He altered his first name from Rene to Rainer on the advice of his psychoanalyst girlfriend, because Rene sounded too feminine.

What? I may be just a pineapple, but, shouldn't she have advised him to go the whole hog?

You mean get rid of Maria as well?

Of course I mean get rid of Maria as well. Didn't it occur to either of them that Maria was more feminine than Rene?

I don't know. Maybe it wasn't allowed. Perhaps it was disrespectful. Anyway, Pineapple, you are avoiding the question : What do you think of Rilke?

I admire him, he must have been very modern in his day. He tries to get to the very essence of things, their inner quiddity, so to speak. I was impressed by his description of the exposed wall. I should be interested to read some of his poems.

What a shame there is only one quarter of you left.

Yes, that is a shame. How am I, by the way?

Delicious. One of the best.

Thank you. Well I shall go now. Just one thing...

What?

What was the girlfriend's name?

Lou.

The Waiting Room

I'm in the very corner of the eye doctor's waiting room, waiting.

I'm waiting for my mum who's having an injection in her eye. I don't want to think about it. I'm reading my book.

It's The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, by Rainer Maria Rilke, and I just started it this morning.

The waiting room is full of old people, waiting for their drops to take effect, and the people who have come with them, reading magazines. The youngest person in the room is the receptionist.

An old woman in a blue coat comes in. I'm early because I caught the bus, she says. But your appointment is tomorrow, says the receptionist. The old woman turns to leave.

My book is not the best one to be reading. Once, says Rilke, people knew that they bore their death within them, like the stone within a fruit. These days (1910) you die as you happen to die; you die the death that comes with your illness.

I look over at the magazine rack. Tucked down the side is a yellow children's book called Bunny and His Friends.

I wish I was reading that.