And again: No more gods! no more gods! Man is King, Man is God! – But the great Faith is Love!
ARTHUR RIMBAUDO seasons, O castles, What soul is without flaws? All its lore is known to me, Felicity, it enchants us all.
More Arthur Rimbaud Quotes
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I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
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The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.
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Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
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I am the slave of my baptism. Parents, you have caused my misfortune, and you have caused your own.
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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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Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun.
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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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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.
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Whose hearts must I break? What lies must I maintain? – Through whose blood am I to wade ?
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Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.
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Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.
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What an old maid I’m getting to be. Lacking the courage to be in love with death!
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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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I understand, and not knowing how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather remain silent.
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Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?
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I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.
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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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What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?
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Eternity is the sun mixed with the sea.
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Morality is the weakness of the mind.
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I shed more tears than God could ever have required.
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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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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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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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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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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