Very rarely do I reread books. I return to academic literature to confirm or to find. But I donâ??t reread. Fiction is even more seldom. Occasionally I search for something I remember. But I donâ??t reread.

One of the factors is time. But thatâ??s a sell out. We find the time to do things that are important. Things we want to do we solve, but for things we donâ??t want to do we find excuses. So it boils done to interest. With an endless sea of things to read yet undiscovered and piles of books around me that are yet to be consumed â?? returning is less appealing. In this manner I am fickle. I return to authors but not to books. I return to blogs but not to posts.

There are some rare exceptions to this behaviour (it is hardly a rule). Reading for comic relief brings me to return to favourites like Asterix, Tintin, and Calvin & Hobbes. But then there is the real exception. Since I discovered the collection, many years ago, I return every half-decade to Rilkeâ??s â??Letters to a Young Poetâ??.

The letters are from Rilke to a young struggling poet. In the first letter Rilke replies to the struggling poets request for advice on writing poetry:

No one can advise or help you – no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple â??I must,â?? then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your while life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.

The book I have is a slim cream coloured hardback volume with an exclusive feel. You can read the texts online but then you will lose some of their value.