The poet makes himself a voyant through a long, immense reasoned deranging of all his senses. All the forms of love, of… — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
I'm now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I'm working at turning myself… — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
“A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of… — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love! — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
“My turn now. The story of one of my insanities. For a long time I boasted that I was master of all possible landscapes--… — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
“Delivered to oblivion...growing and flowering with incense and weeds to the sullen whine of nasty flies... I loved deserts, burnt out orchards, faded boutiques...I… — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
“I On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping White Ophelia floats like a great lily; Floats very slowly, lying in her… — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
Love...no such thing. Whatever it is that binds families and married couples together, that's not love. That's stupidity or selfishness or fear. Love doesn't… — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
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… — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
Oh! If only we were naked now, and free to watch our protruding parts align; To whisper - both of us - in ecstasy! — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter. — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
What an old maid I'm getting to be. lacking the courage to be in love with death! — Arthur Rimbaud Copy Share Image
