Arthur Rimbaud Quotes
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No one's serious at seventeen.
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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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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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Il faut être absolument moderne.
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Je me crois en enfer, donc j'y suis.
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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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I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.
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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn.
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Yet this is the watch by night. Let us all accept new strength, and real tenderness. And at dawn, armed with glowing patience, we will enter the cities of glory.
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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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You feel on your lips a kiss Fluttering, a tiny scrap of life.
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Morality is the weakness of the mind.
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As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.
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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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Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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What am I doing here?
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Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.
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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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A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he?
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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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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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...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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Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!
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You will always be a hyena.