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But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

Arthur Rimbaud

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Arthur Rimbaud
Age: 37 †
Born: 1854
Born: October 20
Died: 1891
Died: November 10
Arms Trader
Explorer
Poet
World Traveler
Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
Jean Nicholas Arthur Rimbaud
Monster
Monsters
Problem
Soul
Make

More quotes by Arthur Rimbaud

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And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down.
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I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.
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I understand, and not knowing how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather remain silent
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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.
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I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.
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Je est un autre. (I is someone else).
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But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
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The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea
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Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.
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I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn
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You will always be a hyena.
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Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.
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I invented the colors of the vowels!--A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green--I made rules for the form and movement of each consonant, and, and with instinctive rhythms, I flattered myself that I had created a poetic language accessible, some day, to all the senses.
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Weakness or strength: you exist, that is strength. You don't know where you are going or why you are going, go in everywhere, answer everyone. No one will kill you, any more than if you were a corpse.
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Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
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Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun.
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No one's serious at seventeen.
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You feel on your lips a kiss Fluttering, a tiny scrap of life.
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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
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