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Arthur Rimbaud Biography

Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud (/ræmˈboʊ/ or /ˈræmboʊ/; French: [aʁtyʁ ʁɛ̃bo] ( listen); 20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891) was a French poet who is known for his influence on modern literature and arts, which prefigured surrealism. Born in Charleville-Mézières, he started writing at a very young age and excelled as a student, but abandoned his formal education in his teenage years to run away from home to Paris amidst the Franco-Prussian War. During his late adolescence and early adulthood he began the bulk of his literary output, but completely stopped writing at the age of 21, after assembling one of his major works, Illuminations.

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Arthur Rimbaud Quotes

O seasons, O castles, What soul is without flaws? All its lore is known to me, Felicity, it enchants us all.

Castles, Enchants, Flaws, Soul

The wolf howled under the leaves And spit out the prettiest feathers Of his meal of fowl: Like him I consume myself.

Fowl, Meals, Prettiest, Spit, Under

Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?

Exile, Night, Nights, Sleep

It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense,
That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.

Mad, Roaring, Sea, Soft, Voice

My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?

Amazement, Awaits, Chaos, Nothingness, Wisdom

And from then on, I bathed in the Poem of the Sea, star-infused, and opalescent, devouring green azures

Azures, Green, Poem, Sea, Stars

You will always be a hyena.

Hyenas, Hyena

O witches, O misery, O hate, to you has my treasure been entrusted! I contrived to purge my mind of all human hope. On all joy, to strangle it, I pounced with the strength of a wild beast. I called to the plagues to smother me in blood, in sand, misfortune was my God.

Blood, Fear, Hate, Joy, Misfortune

I am the slave of my baptism. Parents, you have caused my misfortune, and you have caused your own.

Baptism, Caused, Misfortune, Parent, Slave

No one's serious at seventeen.

Serious, Seventeen

. . . these poets here, you see, they are not of this world:let them live their strange life; let them be cold and hungry, let them run, love and sing: they are as rich as Jacques Coeur, all these silly children, for they have their souls full of rhymes, rhymes which laugh and cry, which make us laugh or cry: Let them live: God blesses all the merciful: and the world blesses the poets.

Children, Full, Jacques, Love, Running, Silly

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.

Devouring, Dream, Dreaming, Men, Stars, Time

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

Alcohol, Bitterness, Red, Stronger, Vaster

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

Chaos, Ought, Say, Thinking, Thought

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

Dance, Garlands, Inspirational, Ropes, Stars, Steeple

Life is the farce we are all forced to endure.

Endure, Farce, Life, Life Is

In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.

Children, Condensation, Dresses, Glasshouses, Marvels, Mourning

But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

Make, Monsters, Problem, Soul

. . . be absolute moderne.

Absolute, Absolutes, Moderne

A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he?

Damned, Man, Men, Mutilate, Want

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