What was I in the last century? I only discover myself in the present day. No more vagabonds, no more vague wars. The inferior race has spread everywhere – the people, as one says, reason: the nation and science. The third part was... well, I don't want to say that I enjoyed reading it, because it's about the narrator's death and his arrival to hell (nothing really nice to read right before going to bed, honestly), but it's beautifully written. Again, this young man makes you feel what was going through his mind and soul with unsettling details. Yesterday, I was still sighing: ‘Heaven! There are enough of us damned down here! I’ve already spent too long, myself, amongst this crew! I know them all. We’ll always recognise each other; we find each other disgusting. Charity’s unknown to us. But we’re polite; our relations with people are perfectly correct.’ Is it surprising! People! Merchants, fools! – We’re not dishonoured – But the elect, how would they receive us? For there are pugnacious and joyous folk: a false elect since we need neither audacity nor humility to approach them. They are the sole elect. They never bless others! Arthur Rimbaud: Une Saison en Enfer/Eine Zeit in der Hölle, Reclam, Stuttgart 1970; afterword by W. Dürrson, p. 105. Aunque me siento incapaz de decir de qué trata esta obra, sin duda alguna este largo poema ha sido para mí una forma de sentir más que de pensar; mientras lo leía no podía dejar de apreciar en las palabras una fuerza infinita, y un sentido muy profundo que me hizo experimentar unas cuantas emociones a la vez.

The last innocence, and the last timidity. I’ve said it. Not to carry my disgust and betrayals through the world. You'll always be a hyena etc. . . ," yells the devil, who'd crowned me with such pretty poppies. "Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!" The philosophers: The world has no age. Humanity simply moves about. You are in the West, but free to inhabit your East, as old as you wish it – and live there well. Don’t be one of the defeated. Philosophers, you belong to your West. My mind, be on your guard. No violent decisions on salvation. Stir yourself! – Ah, science is not swift enough for us!

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If it were always awake from now on, we would soon arrive at truth, which perhaps surrounds us with its angels weeping! ... – If it had been awake till now, I would never have yielded to pernicious instincts, in an immemorial age! ... If it had always been awake, I should be voyaging full of wisdom! ... From the same desert, in the same night, always my weary eyes wake to the star of silver, always, without troubling the Kings of life, the three mages, heart, soul, and mind. When shall we go beyond the shores and mountains, to hail the birth of fresh toil; fresh wisdom, the rout of tyrants and demons, the end of superstition, to adore – as newcomers – Christmas on earth! Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.” Still, now is the eve. Let us receive every influx of strength and true tenderness. And at dawn, armed with an ardent patience, we’ll enter into the splendid cities. Este mes pensé que no llegaría a cumplir mi meta de leer al menos un clásico francés como lo había venido haciendo desde enero —porque honestamente he tenido menos tiempo libre estas últimas semanas—, hasta que se me ocurrió buscar por el lado de la poesía y recordé que tenía a Arthur Rimbaud entre mis pendientes desde hace un tiempo.

O divine Spouse, my Lord, do not refuse the confession of the most sorrowful of your servants. I am lost. I am drunk. I am impure. What a life!

More by this poet

According to some sources, [ who?] Rimbaud's first stay in London in September 1872 converted him from an imbiber of absinthe to a smoker of opium, and drinker of gin and beer. According to biographer Graham Robb, this began "as an attempt to explain why some of his [Rimbaud's] poems are so hard to understand, especially when sober". [3] The poem was by Rimbaud himself dated April through August 1873, but these are dates of completion. He finished the work in a farmhouse in Roche, Ardennes.

The only route to its antithesis, of living an authentic life, of non-existence, is to break from life itself as a source of intrinsic value; it can be pursued, according to Rimbaud, by rebelling against the excesses of your very soul. Is it not because we nurture mists! We eat fever with our watery greens. And the drunkenness! And tobacco! And ignorance! And devotions! – Isn’t all that far from the thought, the wisdom of the East, the primeval land? Why a modern world, if they invent such poisons! Giusto per darvi un’idea, ecco cosa scrive Constable Lombard, della Quarta Brigata del servizio segreto della polizia parigina, a proposito dello ‘strano ménage’: A Season in Hell” is infinitely more meaningful, and powerfully sad, after having read the details of Rimbaud’s life and exit from crafting poetry—which he considered himself a failure and reject among his peers at doing. Edmund White’s bio of Rimbaud shows him in full portrait—a restless, rebellious genius known for drinking absinthe and bashing around in cities for weeks on end, and lesser known for his solo travels on foot, walking through war-torn France and Africa hundreds of miles at a time to thrive in business, one time receiving a diagnosis from a doctor that he had walked so much “it caused his ribs to tear through his skin.”Stamattina devo aver appoggiato il piede sbagliato sullo scendiletto. Altrimenti non si spiegherebbe perché la mia testa abbia associato una tazza di latte coi cereali (la crusca, detesto la crusca) ad Arthur Rimbaud. Non si spiegherebbe perché sono entrata in punta di piedi nella stanza-studiolo, ho aperto l’anta dell’armadio-libreria con un timore quasi reverenziale e ho tirato giù dallo scaffale il volume grosso e blu che giace lì da tempo immemore. In copertina, lo scatto in bianco e nero del nostro diciassettenne terribile, gli occhi grigietti, l’espressione tra assorta e beffarda. Tagad es ļauju sev kļūt par salašņu, cik vien iespējams. Kādēļ? Es gribu būt dzejnieks, un strādāju pie tā, lai kļūtu Redzīgs: jūs nenieka nesapratīsiet, un diez vai es spētu paskaidrot. Runa ir par nonāksanu pie nezināmā, radot traucējumus visās maņās. Ciešanas ir milzīgas; bet jābūt stipram, jābūt dzimušam dzejniekam, un es esmu sevī atpazinis dzejnieku. Tā it nemaz nav mana vaina. Ir aplami sacīt: es domāju; būtu jāsaka: mani domā. — Atvainojiet par vārdu spēli. ES ir cits.” (215-16) Delirium II: Alchemy of Words ( Délires II: Alchimie du verbe) – the narrator then steps in and explains his own false hopes and broken dreams. This section is divided more clearly and contains many sections in verse (most of which are individual poems from the ensemble later called " Derniers vers" or " Vers nouveaux et chansons", albeit with significant variations). Here Rimbaud continues to develop his theory of poetry that began with his " Lettres du Voyant" ("Letters of the Seer"), but ultimately considers the whole endeavour as a failure. [5] Rimbaud's words alternatively scorch and caress, they raise up the most enlivened fancies and play out dark fantasies unlike anything else one could ever be exposed to. Rimbaud becomes the Father of all that is brutal and metal, he becomes the embodiment of debauchery and dark poetry; in this light he is pure electricity, and being that, strange, mysterious, and wonderful.

Kendi kişisel zevkimden bağımsız bir serzenişte bulunmak istiyorum, ara ara gösterdiği gibi eğer ki kendini, yaşantısını ve ilişkilerini, hatta 'ben bir başkasıdır' sözündeki o başkasını anlatsaydı şiirlerinde, ne şahane olurdu. lsd kafasına hep ilgim vardır ancak ben içselleştirilmiş halini hep daha estetik bulmuşumdur, bu sinemada da öyle. çünkü tamam perdenin kalkmış halini resmediyorsun kelimelerle ve ee? nerede bu resmin duygusu, ritmi, ezgisi, spektrumu?a b c d Mathieu, Bertrand, "Introduction" in Rimbaud, Arthur, and Mathieu, Bertrand (translator), A Season in Hell & Illuminations (Rochester, New York: BOA Editions, 1991). These poets will exist! When woman’s endless servitude is broken, when she lives for and through herself, when man – previously abominable – has granted her freedom, she too will be a poet! Women will discover the unknown! Will her world of ideas differ from ours? – She will discover strange things, unfathomable; repulsive, delicious: we will take them to us, we will understand them.