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Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun.

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
Mingled
Eternity
Sea
Sun

More quotes by Arthur Rimbaud

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. . . be absolute moderne.
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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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-But I've just noticed that my mind is asleep.
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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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The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.
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Idle youth, enslaved to everything by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
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Eternity is the sun mixed with the sea
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I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
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I shed more tears than God could ever have required.
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Oh! If only we were naked now, and free to watch our protruding parts align To whisper - both of us - in ecstasy!
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You feel on your lips a kiss Fluttering, a tiny scrap of life.
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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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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
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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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You will always be a hyena.
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But the problem is to make the soul into a monster
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The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea
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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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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.
Arthur Rimbaud
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The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses
Arthur Rimbaud