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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.

Arthur Rimbaud

Life is the farce we are all forced to endure.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Endurance Force Life
The wolf howled under the leaves And spit out the prettiest feathers Of his meal of fowl: Like him I consume myself.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Animal Consumption Himself Leaves Myself Wolf
Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Eternity Forever Nature Sea Sun
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

Himself Journey Poet Poison Travel
I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Alone Himself Key Possession
Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Childhood Discover Genius
What an old maid I’m getting to be. Lacking the courage to be in love with death!
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Courage Death Love Myself Old
Eternity is the sun mixed with the sea.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Forever Nature Sea Sun
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.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Dreams Man Myself Poem Sea Time
As for me, I am intact; and I don’t care.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Care Myself Philosophy
Oh! If only we were naked now, and free to watch our protruding parts align; To whisper – both of us – in ecstasy!
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Freedom Happiness Naked See Sex
And again: No more gods! no more gods! Man is King, Man is God! – But the great Faith is Love!
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Faith God Greatness Love Man Philosophy
Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Criticism Judgement Proper
But the problem is to make the soul into a monster
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Monster Problem Soul Transformation
It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Myself Thinking Wrong
I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Myself Name Night Poet Record Silence Writing

In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.

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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.

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