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The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.

Arthur Rimbaud

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Alcohol Bitter Love Poetry Strong
I shed more tears than God could ever have required.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

God Myself Ocean Tears
I found I could extinguish all human hope from my soul.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Erase Hope Human Myself Soul
Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Life One Liner Performance
Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Night Sleep Yourself
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
Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Criticism Judgement Proper
What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Life True World
True life is elsewhere.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Life One Liner True
One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Beautiful Bitter Evening Myself Taste
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
But the problem is to make the soul into a monster
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Monster Problem Soul Transformation
And I am still alive-what though, my damnation is eternal. A man who deliberately mutilates himself is truly damned, is he not? I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Alive Believe Forever Hell Man Myself True
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?
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Admire Blood Evil Heart Image Monster Myself
The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Himself Pain Poet
My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

Compare Myself Wait Wisdom

The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.

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The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.

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