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It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.

Arthur Rimbaud

I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Dance Gold Myself Rope Star Window
Whose hearts must I break? What lies must I maintain? – Through whose blood am I to wade ?
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Blood Break Heart Lying Myself
The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Himself Pain Poet
I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Myself Sky Under
I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Myself Name Night Poet Record Silence Writing
Weakness or strength: you exist, that is strength. You don’t know where you are going or why you are going, go in everywhere, answer everyone. No one will kill you, any more than if you were a corpse.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Body Death Existence Kill Strength Weakness Yourself
Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Celebration Heart Life Myself Open Remember Wine
Life is the farce we are all forced to endure.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Endurance Force Life
I found I could extinguish all human hope from my soul.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Erase Hope Human Myself Soul
As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Guide Leadership Myself Ocean River
It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense, That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Body Break Human Mad Soft Voice
One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Beautiful Bitter Evening Myself Taste
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.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Action Brain Fate Force Happiness Life Moral Waste Way Weakness
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 believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Believe Hell Myself

It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.

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It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.

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