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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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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
Flaws
Seasons
Known
Soul
Without
Enchants
Lore
Felicity
Castles

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You will always be a hyena.
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What am I doing here?
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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.
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I wrote silences nights I recorded the unnameable.
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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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Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.
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To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I uphold? In what blood tread?
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Love...no such thing. Whatever it is that binds families and married couples together, that's not love. That's stupidity or selfishness or fear. Love doesn't exist. Self interest exists, attachment based on personal gain exists, complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented, that’s certain.
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Hay que ser absolutamente Moderno
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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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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!
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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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Idle youth, enslaved to everything by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
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I shed more tears than God could ever have required.
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I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
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It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense,/ That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.
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But the problem is to make the soul into a monster
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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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