The Raising of Lazarus

Adapted from the original notebook fragment written by Rainer Maria Rilke in Spain in 1913. Evidently, this was needed. Because people need to be screamed at with proof. But he knew his friends. Before they were he knew them. And they knew that he would never leave them there, desolate. So he let his exhausted eyes close at first glimpse of the village fringed with tall fig trees — immediately he found himself in their midst: here was Martha, sister of the dead boy. He knew she would not stray, as he knew which would; he knew that he would always find her at his right hand, and beside her her sister Mary, the one a whole world of whores still stood in a vast circle pointing at. Yes, all were gathered around him. And once again he began to explain to bewildered upturned faces where it was he had to go, and why. He called them “my friends.” The Logos, God’s creating word, — the same voice that said Let there be light. Yet when he opened his eyes, he found himself standing apart. Even the two slowly backing away, as though from concern for their good name. Then he began to hear voices; whispering quite distinctly, or thinking: Lord, if you had been here our friend might not have died