avatar Andrés Cárdenas (@kandr3s)

📕 Finished reading:

A Season in Hell and The Drunken Boat
Arthur Rimbaud
ISBN: 9780811201858.


The last innocence and the last timidity. It’s settled. Not to display my betrayals and disgusts to the world. Forward! The march, the burden and the desert, weariness and anger. To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies should I uphold? In what blood tread?

What an old maid I am getting to be, lacking the courage to be in love with death!

I should have my hell for anger, my hell for pride,—and the hell of laziness; a symphony of hells. I die of lassitude. It is the tomb, I go to the worms, horror of horrors! Satan, you fraud, you would dissolve me with your charms. I insist. I insist! a thrust of the pitchfork, a drop of fire.

“If he explained his sadness to me, would I understand it any more than his mockery? He assails me, he spends hours making me ashamed of everything in the world that may have touched me, and is indignant if I weep.

O may it come, the time of love, The time we’d be enamoured of. I’ve been patient too long, My memory is dead, All fears and all wrongs To the heavens have fled. While all my veins burst With a sickly thirst.

O may it come, the time of love, The time we’d be enamoured of. Like the meadow that is dreaming Forgetful of cares, Flourishing and flowering With incense and tares, Where fierce buzzings rise Of filthy flies. O may it come, the time of love, The time we’d be enamoured of.

This family is a litter of puppies

No more desires for me: It has taken my life in fee.

Ah! That life of my childhood, the highroad in all weathers, supernaturally sober, more disinterested than the best of beggars, proud to have neither country, nor friends, how stupid it was! And I see it only now!

Subtle, silly torture; source of all my spiritual vagrancies.

Ah! hurry, do hurry; out there, beyond the night, those future, those eternal rewards. . . shall we escape them?

—What can I do? I know what toil is; and science is too slow. Let prayer gallop and light thunder. . . I see it clearly. It is too simple, and it’s too hot; they will get along without me. I have my duty; I shall be proud of it after the fashion of several others by setting it aside.

However, I have finished, I think, the tale of my hell today. It was really hell; the old hell, the one whose doors were opened by the son of man. From the same desert, in the same night, always my tired eyes awake to the silver star, always, but the Kings of life are not moved, the three magi, mind and heart and soul. When shall we go beyond the mountains and the shores, to greet the birth of new toil, of new wisdom, the flight of tyrants, of demons, the end of superstitition, to adore—the first to adore!—Christmas on the earth. The song of the heavens, the marching of peoples! Slaves, let us not curse life.

The Drunken Boat

The waters let me go my own free way.