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Morality is the weakness of the mind.

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
Morality
Weakness
Mind

More quotes by Arthur Rimbaud

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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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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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I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.
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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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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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The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea
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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn
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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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One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.
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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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Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.
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-But I've just noticed that my mind is asleep.
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Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun.
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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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Idle youth, enslaved to everything by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
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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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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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Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
Arthur Rimbaud