Arthur Rimbaud Quotes
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I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.
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Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity.
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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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I may die of earthly love, or of devotion.
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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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No one's serious at seventeen.
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What an old maid I'm getting to be. lacking the courage to be in love with death!
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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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Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!
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As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.
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I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.
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I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.
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Now I am an outcast. I loathe my country. The best thing for me is a drunken sleep on the beach.
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Eternity is the sun mixed with the sea.
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I saw that all beings are fated to happiness: action is not life, but a way of wasting some force, an enervation. Morality is the weakness of the brain.
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My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?
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The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.
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Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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On the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths, And walk over the short grass, as I am pricked by the wheat: Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet. I will let the wind bathe my bare head. I will not speak, I will have no thoughts: But infinite love will mount in my soul; And I will go far, far off, like a gypsy, through the countryside - as happy as if I were a woman. Sensation.
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You will always be a hyena.
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Weakness or strength: you exist, that is strength. You don't know where you are going or why you are going, go in everywhere, answer everyone. No one will kill you, any more than if you were a corpse.
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...these poets here, you see, they are not of this world:let them live their strange life; let them be cold and hungry, let them run, love and sing: they are as rich as Jacques Coeur, all these silly children, for they have their souls full of rhymes, rhymes which laugh and cry, which make us laugh or cry: Let them live: God blesses all the merciful: and the world blesses the poets.
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It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.
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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.