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I am the slave of my baptism. Parents, you have caused my misfortune, and you have caused your own.

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
Misfortune
Misfortunes
Caused
Slave
Parents
Parent
Baptism

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The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea
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Misfortune was my god.
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Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.
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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 Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses
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The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.
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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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But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn
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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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-But I've just noticed that my mind is asleep.
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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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No one's serious at seventeen.
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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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I shed more tears than God could ever have required.
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You feel on your lips a kiss Fluttering, a tiny scrap of life.
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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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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.
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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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