Arthur Rimbaud Quotes
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What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?
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Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.
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True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.
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Life is the farce we are all forced to endure.
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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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I don't love women. Love has to be reinvented, we know that. The only thing women can ultimately imagine is security. Once they get that, love, beauty, everything else goes out the window. All they have left is cold disdain; that's what marriages live on nowadays. Sometimes I see women who ought to be happy, with whom I could have found companionship, already swallowed up by brutes with as much feeling as an old log.
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I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.
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The wolf howled under the leaves And spit out the prettiest feathers Of his meal of fowl: Like him I consume myself.
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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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What am I doing here?
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For a long time I found the celebrities of modern painting and poetry ridiculous. I loved absurd pictures, fanlights, stage scenery, mountebanks backcloths, inn-signs, cheap colored prints; unfashionable literature, church Latin, pornographic books badly spelt, grandmothers novels, fairy stories, little books for children, old operas, empty refrains, simple rhythms.
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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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The poet makes himself a voyant through a long, immense reasoned deranging of all his senses. All the forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he tries to find himself, he exhausts in himself all the poisons, to keep only their quintessences.
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...as for me, I am intact; and I don't care.
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Eternity is the sun mixed with the sea
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Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!
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I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.
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I could never throw Love out of the window.
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To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I uphold? In what blood tread?
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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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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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Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun.
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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn
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Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.
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As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.
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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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. . . be absolute moderne.
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The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea
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Unhappiness was my god.
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