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Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.
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
Opened
Hearts
Wine
Remember
Wells
Well
Wines
Heart
Flowed
Life
Feast
More quotes by Arthur Rimbaud
The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea
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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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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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The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.
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What am I doing here?
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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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It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
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Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!
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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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But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
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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.
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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 was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense,/ That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.
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Idle youth, enslaved to everything by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
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Hay que ser absolutamente Moderno
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I am the slave of my baptism. Parents, you have caused my misfortune, and you have caused your own.
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A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he?
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No one's serious at seventeen.
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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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