Arthur Rimbaud Quotes
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Je me crois en enfer, donc j'y suis.
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It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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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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No one's serious at seventeen.
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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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It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense,/ That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.
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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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Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.
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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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Misfortune was my god.
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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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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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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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I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.
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I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.
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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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Eternity is the sun mixed with the sea.
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Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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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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What am I doing here?
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Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!
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You feel on your lips a kiss Fluttering, a tiny scrap of life.
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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.