Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!
ARTHUR RIMBAUDMorality is the weakness of the mind.
More Arthur Rimbaud Quotes
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As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.
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Yet this is the watch by night. Let us all accept new strength, and real tenderness. And at dawn, armed with glowing patience, we will enter the cities of glory.
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Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.
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I understand, and not knowing how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather remain silent.
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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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I could never throw Love out of the window.
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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.
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Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun.
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Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.
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A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn’t he?
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I shed more tears than God could ever have required.
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Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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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.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
Oh! If only we were naked now, and free to watch our protruding parts align; To whisper – both of us – in ecstasy!
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
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But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
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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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True life is elsewhere.
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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
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One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.
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Morality is the weakness of the mind.
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I may die of earthly love, or of devotion.
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I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.
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Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
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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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It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense, That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD