READ THIS: Rimbaud

"L'enfer ne peut attaquer les païens."

It is difficult to find Wallace Fowlie's translation of this piece online and, to me, it's far superior than the ones I came across. Anyway, Rimbaud is a treasure. I, for one, need to read more/reread as every time I pick up his work I am struck with a new understanding and appreciation of his writing (most of which was written, you may well know, as an adolescent). This particular prose-ish piece, the first short chapter from Rimbaud's "Season in Hell," I find especially appropriate given the spooky season befalling us. Find a copy of Rimbaud's works and consume it all! In the meantime, I am taking the time to type this out so you may take the time to read it. Enjoy.

A SEASON IN HELL

Long ago, if my memory serves me, my life was a banquet where everyone's heart was generous, and where all wines flowed.

One evening I pulled Beauty down on my knees. I found her embittered and I cursed her.

I took arms against justice.

I ran away. O witches, poverty, hate- I have confided my treasure to you!

I was able to expel from my mind all human hope. On every form of joy, in order to strangle it, I pounced stealthily like a wild animal.

I called to my executioners to let me bite the ends of their guns, as I died. I called to all the plagues to stifle me with sand and blood. Disaster was my god. I stretched out in mud. I dried myself in criminal air. I played clever tricks on insanity.

Spring brought to me an idiots terrifying laughter.

But recently, on the verge of giving my last croak, I thought of looking for the key to the ancient banquet where I might possibly recover my appetite.

Charity is the key. This lofty thought proves I dreamt it!

"You will remain a hyena..." etc., yells the demon who crowned me with such delightful poppies. "Reach your death with all your lusts, with your selfishness and all the capital sins."

Ah! I've taken too much on. Dear Satan, I beg you, show a less glaring eye! While waiting for the few small acts of cowardice still to come, for you who like in a writer an absence of descriptive or discursive faculties, I as one of the damned tear out those few miserable pages from my notebook.