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

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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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The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea
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I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
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I invented the colors of the vowels!--A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green--I made rules for the form and movement of each consonant, and, and with instinctive rhythms, I flattered myself that I had created a poetic language accessible, some day, to all the senses.
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. . . be absolute moderne.
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What am I doing here?
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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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It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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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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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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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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But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
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Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.
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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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Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!
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Misfortune was my god.
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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.
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But the problem is to make the soul into a monster
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Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.
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