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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?
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
Shall
Hire
Break
Adore
Lying
Beast
Heart
Image
Hearts
Lies
Uphold
Holy
Tread
Blood
Attacked
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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
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Morality is the weakness of the mind.
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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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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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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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Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.
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The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.
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No one's serious at seventeen.
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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.
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You feel on your lips a kiss Fluttering, a tiny scrap of life.
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You will always be a hyena.
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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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But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
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Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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Eternity is the sun mixed with the sea
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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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The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses
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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 went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
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