Arthur Rimbaud Quotes
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I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.
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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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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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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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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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Je me crois en enfer, donc j'y suis.
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As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.
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Il faut être absolument moderne.
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I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.
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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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I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.
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Morality is the weakness of the mind.
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Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.
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Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!
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A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he?
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You feel on your lips a kiss Fluttering, a tiny scrap of life.
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What am I doing here?
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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 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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...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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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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You will always be a hyena.
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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.