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“And it is not enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves - only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.”

-Rainer Maria Rilke, from a book I found on an electrical box, Manhattan Avenue, 10pm Sunday. Highlighted to all hell. Abandoned but read. Introduction by William Gass. I never knew Rilke wrote a novel.  An extraordinary little find.