Rilke, Bukowski, and the Origin of Find What You Love and Let It Kill You

This is part 1 of a two-part series. Read part 2 here: The Cost of Passion: When Pursuing What You Love Changes Everything.

I first came across this phrase a few years ago, and it stopped me cold. “Find what you love and let it kill you.” It was scrawled in somebody’s Twitter bio, attributed to Charles Bukowski. It sounded violent and reckless, and truth be told, it scared me a little. I kept thinking about it though. Weeks later, I was still chewing on it.

That is the thing about lines like this. They stick because they touch something real. Most of us are walking around half-committed to everything. We keep one foot out the door at all times because that feels safer. But this phrase says: what if safety is the actual problem?

The version I see most often comes from Bukowski’s poem “Roll the Dice.” The full passage goes: “if you’re going to try, go all the way. there is no other feeling like that. you will be alone with the gods and the nights will flame with fire. do it, do it, do it. do it. you will ride life straight to perfect laughter. it’s the only good fight there is.”

That does not sound like somebody who is playing it safe.

But here is the thing I have come to understand after sitting with this idea for a while. The phrase has layers. And the people who repeat it often miss the deeper meaning underneath the dramatic surface.

Where This Phrase Actually Comes From

Most people attribute “find what you love and let it kill you” to Bukowski, and that is half right. The version we know is Bukowskian: raw, confrontational, no apologies. But the seed of the idea comes from somewhere older and quieter.

Rainer Maria Rilke wrote about this in his “Letters to a Young Poet.” A young man named Franz Kappus wrote to Rilke asking for feedback on his poetry and advice about becoming a writer. Rilke’s response was not what Kappus probably expected. He did not say “go for it” or “follow your dream.” He told the young poet to be patient with himself. To live his questions. To wait for the answers to grow into him naturally over time.

Rilke wrote: “Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write. See if it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart. Confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.”

This is the original version of the idea. Rilke was asking: is this thing so essential to who you are that you would die without it? Not in a dramatic sense, but in a real one. If somebody took away your ability to do this work, would the person left standing feel hollow?

That question hits different than Bukowski’s bare-knuckle version. But they are circling the same truth.

What Rilke Meant vs What Bukowski Meant

Here is the distinction I have come to see. Rilke’s version is about depth. He wanted the young poet to check whether writing was rooted in his core or just a passing interest. If it was rooted there, the work was inevitable. You would do it because you could not not do it.

Bukowski’s version is about intensity. Once you know the thing is rooted in you, go all in. Burn the boats. Commit so completely that retreat becomes impossible.

Both are right, and both are incomplete on their own. Rilke without Bukowski leaves you thoughtful but passive, always contemplating and never acting. Bukowski without Rilke leaves you running hard in the wrong direction, burning out on something that was never really yours.

I needed both to make sense of this idea. I needed to check whether the thing I was chasing was actually mine, and then I needed the courage to commit to it without reservations.

Continue reading: The Cost of Passion: When Pursuing What You Love Changes Everything covers the philosophy of going all the way, the real costs of passion, and how to know when you have crossed the line into obsession.