Quote

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?

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
Break
Adore
Lying
Beast
Heart
Image
Hearts
Lies
Uphold
Holy
Tread
Blood
Attacked
Shall
Hire

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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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Je est un autre. (I is someone else).
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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 believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.
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And I am still alive-what though, my damnation is eternal. A man who deliberately mutilates himself is truly damned, is he not? I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am.
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The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.
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But the problem is to make the soul into a monster
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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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Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
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Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!
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Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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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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I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
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The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses
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