O seasons, O castles, What soul is without flaws? All its lore is known to me, Felicity, it enchants us all. Arthur Rimbaud More Quotes by Arthur Rimbaud More Quotes From Arthur Rimbaud My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you? Arthur Rimbaud nothingness amazement chaos A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he? Arthur Rimbaud want men All day long he was docile, intelligent, good, Though sometimes changing to a darker mood. He seemed hypocritical, could tell better lies, in the dark he saw dots of colors behind closed eyes, clenched fists, put his tongue out at his elder brother. Arthur Rimbaud eye brother lying As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen. Arthur Rimbaud felt rivers Here I am on the shore of Brittany. Let the cities light up in the evening. My day is done. I am leaving Europe. The sea air will burn my lungs. Lost climates will tan me. I will swim, trample the grass, hung, and smoke especially. I will drink alcohol as strong as boiling metal--just as my dear ancestors did around their fires. Arthur Rimbaud light strong fire And from then on, I bathed in the Poem of the Sea, star-infused, and opalescent, devouring green azures Arthur Rimbaud green stars sea Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics! Arthur Rimbaud judged critics judging Faith assuages, guides, restores. Arthur Rimbaud guides Misfortune was my god. Arthur Rimbaud misfortunes True life is elsewhere Arthur Rimbaud true-life elsewhere life-is The first study for the man who wants to be a poet is knowledge of himself, complete: he searches for his soul, he inspects it, he puts it to the test, he learns it. As soon as he has learned it, he must cultivate it! I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences. Ineffable torture where he needs all his faith, all his superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed one--and the supreme Scholar! For he reaches the unknown! ....So the poet is actually a thief of Fire!” Arthur Rimbaud When you are seventeen you aren't really serious. Arthur Rimbaud While public funds evaporate in feasts of fraternity, a bell of rosy fire rings in the clouds.” Arthur Rimbaud
