Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity.
ARTHUR RIMBAUDOh! If only we were naked now, and free to watch our protruding parts align; To whisper – both of us – in ecstasy!
More Arthur Rimbaud Quotes
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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!
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
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 -
The wolf howled under the leaves And spit out the prettiest feathers Of his meal of fowl: Like him I consume myself.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
Whose hearts must I break? What lies must I maintain? – Through whose blood am I to wade ?
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
Morality is the weakness of the mind.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
I am the slave of my baptism. Parents, you have caused my misfortune, and you have caused your own.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
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 -
Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
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 -
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.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!
ARTHUR RIMBAUD -
In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD