Yet today I think I’ve finished my tale of hell. It was hell, for certain; the ancient one, whose gates the son of man opened wide.

I am slave to the infernal Spouse, he who ruined the foolish virgins. It’s indeed that very same demon. It’s no spectre, it’s no phantom. But I who have lost my wisdom, who am damned and dead to the world – they won’t kill me! – How can I describe him to you! I can’t speak any more. I am in mourning, I weep, I fear. A little coolness, Lord, if you please, if you graciously please!così che Verlaine finisce smarrito in Rimbaud e nel suo inferno, che forse è troppo fragile per sopportare. Lo ritroviamo imbrigliato nel primo dei Deliri di ‘Una stagione all’inferno’, nei panni della Vergine Folle. Lui la Vergine Folle, Rimbaud lo Sposo Infernale. Pochi paragrafi, ma che ci danno la misura di quanto profondamente anche Rimbaud sentisse la misura della propria dismisura. Well, first, it still does have the essence of Rimbaud and that counts for something, even if the language has become somewhat mangled. Second, I quite enjoy having the English and French texts side-by-side (a favored feature that can also be found in the translations of Fowlie and Varèse). And, finally, I really enjoyed the translator's preface and postscript. I learned some new things about Rimbaud's life from these, but the veracity of some things is questionable as certain key biographical details that Mathieu includes completely conflict with points made in the other translations that I have read. I think I will probably read Enid Starkie's biography of Rimbaud at some point and try to see what light she can offer. Of course, Rimbaud is not a poet who can easily be pinned down and the stories included by Mathieu, while different from those of other translators, are very interesting nonetheless -- missing pieces to a jigsaw puzzle that will never be complete. And Mathieu's postscript is also valuable in the sense that it, unlike other translations, points the reader toward works that influenced the young Rimbaud, including the works of Swedenborg, Eliphas Levi and the novels of Balzac. Quite interesting and worthy of further investigation.

Schmidt: "Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed." Have faith then in me, faith soothes, guides, heals. Come, all you – even the little children – let me console you, may a heart go out to you – the marvellous heart! – Poor men, workers! I don’t ask for prayer; with your trust alone, I’ll be happy. The Impossible ( L'impossible) – this section is vague, but one critical response [ who?] sees it as the description of an attempt on the part of the speaker to escape from hell. Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.”

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For ages I boasted of possessing all possible landscapes, and found the celebrities of modern painting and poetry absurd. At present, I inhabit the world’s depths! O my friends! ... No, not my friends...Never such ravings such torments...It’s so stupid! I’d no longer be capable of demanding the comfort of a bastinado. I don’t think I’m embarking for a wedding with Jesus Christ for father-in-law.

Bu zamana kadar yazılmış bütün şiire öznel şiir deyip onları çöp saydığı için biçimi tamamen atıyor Rimbaud. Kitabı elinize ilk alsanız size 'kıssadan hisse' havası veriyor çünkü bildiğiniz nesir biçiminde şiirler ve bilinçli bi bulanıklıkta anlatıyor. ama beni rahatsız etmedi çünkü içerik kaotik olduğu için okurken ağdalı bir romanmış gibi gelmiyor. pek çok şiirinde, şiiri herhangi bir yerden bölüp alt satıra geçirseniz cümle öbeklerini, yine aynısını hissedersiniz. düşünün, Hugo'nun Sefilleri'ne "çok uzun bir şiir" diyor bir mektubunda, haşa.

More by this poet

I’m a widow...– I was a widow ... – why yes, I was very respectable once, I was not born to be a skeleton! ... – He was almost a child...His mysterious sensitivities seduced me. I forgot all my human tasks to follow him. What a life! The true life is absent. We are not in this world. I go where he goes, I have to. And often he’s angry with me, me, poor soul. The Demon! – He’s a Demon you know, he’s not a man. Etre un tel Asperger poétique est une calamité dans le monde moderne et il n’y a pour ces personnes que le plaisir de mourir le plus vite possible pour être enfin en rapport avec soi-même, posséder comme il le dit dans son dernier souffle, enfin, « la vérité dans une âme et un corps », les deux unis dans la mort qui enfin satisfait sa soif et sa faim d’une satiété éternelle. The second delirium, “Alchemy of the Word,” presents the speaker’s dream of what poetry could be. He has made experiments with sounds, very much as an alchemist might experiment with elements. He has assigned a color to each vowel in an effort to create a whole new language for poetry. Now he dreams of a shape for each consonant and offers carefully crafted verses about a new age and a new relation between nature and humans. At the center is a new Tower of Babel and the song of a new age sung from its heights. The verses here are pure lyric, not the alexandrines of “The Drunken Boat” and many of Rimbaud’s other major poems. However, all this is folly, he says, like the vanity of Ecclesiastes in the Hebrew Scriptures. I’ve glimpsed a conversion to goodness and joy, salvation. Let me describe the vision, the air of hell suffers no hymns! It was of millions of enchanting creatures, sweet spiritual harmony, strength and peace, noble ambitions, who knows what? Pienso que tampoco sería capaz de valorarla propiamente, de hecho con la poesía me pasa siempre así (aunque no suelo leerla muy a menudo): lo que yo siento o veo no necesariamente será lo que la persona junto a mí sienta o vea. Así que mi valoración en este caso será de acuerdo a lo que viví al momento de leer este poema; quizá mañana la historia podría ser distinta.

Rimbaud hakkında çok şey söylenmiş, çok şey yazılmış ve çok fazla incelenmiş. Ben yoruma sadece okurken 'ne okuduğumu hissettiğim'i yazacağım. I accustomed myself to pure hallucination: I saw quite clearly a mosque instead of a factory, a college of drummers consisting of angels, a salon in the depths of a lake; monsters, mysteries; a vaudeville title conjured up terrors before me. Morality and intuition, as a result, are possible on this shedding of self; the appearance of comprehending the self, one’s attachment to desire and emotion, the completeness of the human condition, all this makes up a part of reality where the denial of death and suffering are manifest. According to some sources, [ who?] Rimbaud's first stay in London in September 1872 converted him from an imbiber of absinthe to a smoker of opium, and drinker of gin and beer. According to biographer Graham Robb, this began "as an attempt to explain why some of his [Rimbaud's] poems are so hard to understand, especially when sober". [3] The poem was by Rimbaud himself dated April through August 1873, but these are dates of completion. He finished the work in a farmhouse in Roche, Ardennes. In Greece, as I say, verse and lyre took rhythm from Action. Afterwards, music and rhyme are a game, a pastime. The study of the past charms the curious: many of them delight in reviving these antiquities: – that’s up to them. The universal intelligence has always thrown out its ideas naturally: men gathered a part of these fruits of the mind: they acted them out, they wrote books by means of them: so it progressed, men not working on themselves, either not being awake, or not yet in the fullness of the great dream. Civil-servants – writers: author; creator, poet: that man has never existed!The forth part is Ravings I, Foolish Virgin, The Infernal Spouse. I'm guessing you can imagine to whom he's referring in this one. Este mes pensé que no llegaría a cumplir mi meta de leer al menos un clásico francés como lo había venido haciendo desde enero —porque honestamente he tenido menos tiempo libre estas últimas semanas—, hasta que se me ocurrió buscar por el lado de la poesía y recordé que tenía a Arthur Rimbaud entre mis pendientes desde hace un tiempo. I dreamt of crusades, unrecorded voyages of discovery, republics without histories, wars of suppressed religion, moral revolutions, movements of races and continents: I believed in every enchantment. You’re a hyena still...’ the demon cries who crowned me with such delightful poppies. ‘Win death with all your appetites; your egotism, all the deadly sins.’