In fairness, w/r/t to the 2-star rating, much about this book is substantially better than "ok". The prose--if we can even call it "prose", and not simply "poetry"--is thrilling. Rilke, in almost every way, is the consummate poet. His natural writing style is dense and florid. He can't help but write poetry.

And this book is essentially a 200+ page meditative poem. There's not much of a story to speak of, just the recollections and observations of the aloof, melancholy protagonist. This makes it a slow, massy read. There's an eye-crossing weight to it.

Rilke's at his best here when he's pontificating on larger, capital-letter, issues--Death, The Artist, Love, etc. At his worst, he leads the reader struggling through the sludge of some loosely-connected, hoary recollections. These sections are difficult, and disrupt much of the book's rhythm and momentum. As such, a book that should probably be read quickly, over the period of several long afternoons, for me stretched out over the course of several months. So it's certainly possible that I missed something vital--that it was my reading that undermined the book's intended flow and feel.

As a younger, more patient, reader, hungrier for Rilke's poetic Truth Bombs, and more willing to delay intellectual gratification, this probably would have been much more exciting. Crusty literary curmudgeon that I am though, I would have much preferred this as a short book of quasi-essays, without all of the narrative cruft.