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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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Misfortune was my god.
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O witches, O misery, O hate, to you has my treasure been entrusted! I contrived to purge my mind of all human hope. On all joy, to strangle it, I pounced with the strength of a wild beast. I called to the plagues to smother me in blood, in sand, misfortune was my God.
Arthur Rimbaud
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You feel on your lips a kiss Fluttering, a tiny scrap of life.
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I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
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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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Come from forever, and you will go everywhere.
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You will always be a hyena.
Arthur Rimbaud
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The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea
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The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.
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I am the slave of my baptism. Parents, you have caused my misfortune, and you have caused your own.
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Oh! If only we were naked now, and free to watch our protruding parts align To whisper - both of us - in ecstasy!
Arthur Rimbaud
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Here I am on the shore of Brittany. Let the cities light up in the evening. My day is done. I am leaving Europe. The sea air will burn my lungs. Lost climates will tan me. I will swim, trample the grass, hung, and smoke especially. I will drink alcohol as strong as boiling metal--just as my dear ancestors did around their fires.
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. . . be absolute moderne.
Arthur Rimbaud
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Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.
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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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O seasons, O castles, What soul is without flaws? All its lore is known to me, Felicity, it enchants us all.
Arthur Rimbaud
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-But I've just noticed that my mind is asleep.
Arthur Rimbaud
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It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense,/ That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.
Arthur Rimbaud