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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.

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
Time
Star
Infused
Sea
Bathed
Green
Azure
Goes
Devouring
Stars
Drowned
Churned
Dream
Dreaming
Entranced
Sometimes
Milk
Pallid
Men
Poem
Flotsam

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Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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-But I've just noticed that my mind is asleep.
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It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
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Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun.
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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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Eternity is the sun mixed with the sea
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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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Je est un autre. (I is someone else).
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I wrote silences nights I recorded the unnameable.
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No one's serious at seventeen.
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The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.
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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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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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But the problem is to make the soul into a monster
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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn
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Yet this is the watch by night. Let us all accept new strength, and real tenderness. And at dawn, armed with glowing patience, we will enter the cities of glory.
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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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. . . be absolute moderne.
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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
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