Arthur Rimbaud Quotes
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The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.
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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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Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.
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Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
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Then you'll feel your cheek scratched... A little kiss, like a crazy spider, Will run round your neck... And you'll say to me : "Find it !" bending your head - And we'll take a long time to find that creature - Which travels a lot.
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La vieillerie poétique avait une bonne part dans mon alchimie du verbe.
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...You have to pass an exam, and the jobs that you get are either to shine shoes, or to herd cows, or to tend pigs. Thank God, I don't want any of that! Damn it! And besides that they smack you for a reward; they call you an animal and it's not true, a little kid, etc.. Oh! Damn Damn Damn Damn Damn!
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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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Elle est retrouvée,Quoi ? - L'Éternité.C'est la mer alléeAvec le soleil.
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Ô mes petites amoureuses,Que je vous hais !
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I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
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Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
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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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I'm intact, and I don't give a damn.
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But the problem is to make the soul into a monster.
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Je dis qu'il faut être voyant, se faire voyant. Le poète se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens.
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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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-But I've just noticed that my mind is asleep.
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The wolf howled under the leaves And spit out the prettiest feathers Of his meal of fowl: Like him I consume myself.
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What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?
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Plus douce qu'aux enfants la chair des pommes sures,L'eau verte pénétra ma coque de sapin.
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Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?
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I don't love women. Love has to be reinvented, we know that. The only thing women can ultimately imagine is security. Once they get that, love, beauty, everything else goes out the window. All they have left is cold disdain; that's what marriages live on nowadays. Sometimes I see women who ought to be happy, with whom I could have found companionship, already swallowed up by brutes with as much feeling as an old log.
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J'allais sous le ciel, Muse! et j'étais ton féal.