Morality is the weakness of the mind.
ARTHUR RIMBAUDThe 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.
More Arthur Rimbaud Quotes
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I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.
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I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
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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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Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity.
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I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.
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As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.
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Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.
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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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Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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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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My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?
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Oh! If only we were naked now, and free to watch our protruding parts align; To whisper – both of us – in ecstasy!
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Now I am an outcast. I loathe my country. The best thing for me is a drunken sleep on the beach.
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You feel on your lips a kiss Fluttering, a tiny scrap of life.
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True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.
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A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn’t he?
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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
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True life is elsewhere.
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I shed more tears than God could ever have required.
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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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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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The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.
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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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Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
ARTHUR RIMBAUD