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A Season in Hell & Illuminations
“The definitive translation for our time.”
–Edward Hirsch
From Dante’s Inferno to Sartre’s No Exit, writers have been fascinated by visions of damnation. Within that rich literature of suffering, Arthur Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell–written when the poet was nineteen–provides an astonishing example of the grapple with self.
As a companion to Rimbaud’s journey, readers could have no better guide than Wyatt Mason. One of our most talented young translators and critics, Mason’s new version of A Season in Hell renders the music and mystery of Rimbaud’s tale of Hell on Earth with exceptional finesse and power.
This bilingual edition includes maps, a helpful chronology of Rimbaud’s life, and the unfinished suite of prose poems, Illuminations and A Season in Hell cement Rimbaud’s reputation as one of the foremost, and most influential, writers in French literature.
–Edward Hirsch
From Dante’s Inferno to Sartre’s No Exit, writers have been fascinated by visions of damnation. Within that rich literature of suffering, Arthur Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell–written when the poet was nineteen–provides an astonishing example of the grapple with self.
As a companion to Rimbaud’s journey, readers could have no better guide than Wyatt Mason. One of our most talented young translators and critics, Mason’s new version of A Season in Hell renders the music and mystery of Rimbaud’s tale of Hell on Earth with exceptional finesse and power.
This bilingual edition includes maps, a helpful chronology of Rimbaud’s life, and the unfinished suite of prose poems, Illuminations and A Season in Hell cement Rimbaud’s reputation as one of the foremost, and most influential, writers in French literature.
240 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1873
About the author
Arthur Rimbaud
595 books2,455 followersHallucinatory work of French poet Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud strongly influenced the surrealists.
With known transgressive themes, he influenced modern literature and arts, prefiguring. 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 to Paris amidst the Franco-Prussian war. During his late adolescence and early adulthood, he produced the bulk of his literary output. After assembling his last major work, Illuminations , Rimbaud completely stopped writing literature at age 20 years in 1874.
A hectic, violent romantic relationship, which lasted nearly two years at times, with fellow poet Paul Verlaine engaged Rimbaud, a libertine, restless soul. After his retirement as a writer, he traveled extensively on three continents as a merchant and explorer until his death from cancer. As a poet, Rimbaud is well known for his contributions to symbolism and, among other works, for A Season in Hell , a precursor to modernist literature.
With known transgressive themes, he influenced modern literature and arts, prefiguring. 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 to Paris amidst the Franco-Prussian war. During his late adolescence and early adulthood, he produced the bulk of his literary output. After assembling his last major work, Illuminations , Rimbaud completely stopped writing literature at age 20 years in 1874.
A hectic, violent romantic relationship, which lasted nearly two years at times, with fellow poet Paul Verlaine engaged Rimbaud, a libertine, restless soul. After his retirement as a writer, he traveled extensively on three continents as a merchant and explorer until his death from cancer. As a poet, Rimbaud is well known for his contributions to symbolism and, among other works, for A Season in Hell , a precursor to modernist literature.
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April 28, 2022
“Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.”
A Season in Hell & Illuminations is a journey in which Arthur Rimbaud serves as poet, visionary and madman. Rimbaud's journey, the words and images he uses, is evocative and always speaks to me (even in translation). This doesn't mean I fully understand how Rimbaud's poetry should be interpreted or how each person should approach the poems. Still, there is no doubt that they are powerful. While I'm more drawn to A Season in Hell, I've read both parts multiple times and find something different each time.
“Priests, professors, masters, you are wrong to turn me over to Justice. I have never belonged to this people. I have never been Christian. I am of the race that sang under torture. I do not understand your laws. I have no moral sense, I am a brute.”
“Delivered to oblivion...growing and flowering with incense and weeds to the sullen whine of nasty flies...I loved deserts, burned out orchards, faded boutiques...I dragged myself down stinking alleyways...General, if there's an old canon left, aim for the glass of splendid shops, into the living rooms...make the city eat its own dust.”
A Season in Hell & Illuminations is a journey in which Arthur Rimbaud serves as poet, visionary and madman. Rimbaud's journey, the words and images he uses, is evocative and always speaks to me (even in translation). This doesn't mean I fully understand how Rimbaud's poetry should be interpreted or how each person should approach the poems. Still, there is no doubt that they are powerful. While I'm more drawn to A Season in Hell, I've read both parts multiple times and find something different each time.
“Priests, professors, masters, you are wrong to turn me over to Justice. I have never belonged to this people. I have never been Christian. I am of the race that sang under torture. I do not understand your laws. I have no moral sense, I am a brute.”
“Delivered to oblivion...growing and flowering with incense and weeds to the sullen whine of nasty flies...I loved deserts, burned out orchards, faded boutiques...I dragged myself down stinking alleyways...General, if there's an old canon left, aim for the glass of splendid shops, into the living rooms...make the city eat its own dust.”
May 16, 2012
A friend's boyfriend in college pounded on my door at 3am. I woke up groggy and let him in. "Hey, you like poetry, right? Well I got a poem for ya." Ok, I said. I sat on the bed and he began to read "Once if I remember it well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed..." He read on and on... I said "How long is this poem?" He said "It's the whole book!" I laughed. And we became good friends, and have been ever since. Rimbaud introduced us.
October 24, 2018
.
Rimbaud hakkında çok şey söylenmiş, çok şey yazılmış ve çok fazla incelenmiş. Ben yoruma sadece okurken 'ne okuduğumu hissettiğim'i yazacağım.
4 şey ile tanımlayabilirim Rimbaud'u: bilinçli esriklik, yoğun metaforlar, anlatımsı tirat, düz yazı.
- Çok yakın zamanda Baudelaire okuduğum için etkilerini az çok görebildim. bunun başlıcası bu esriklik dediğimizde daha güzel olan LSD kafası yani ister gözün arkası deyin, ister gözün önünden çekilmiş perde, bunları aşarak şiir yazma çabası bu. bazen madde alarak 'sahtesine (öyle diyor)', bazen de deneyimleme ile geçiyor bu "bilinmez"e.
- Diğeri de sembolizm ancak Baudelaire kadar etkin-etkileyici kullandığını söyleyemem (yahut diğer sembolistlere nazaran). kendini öznellikten uzak tutmaya çalıştığı için olabilir bu.
- metaforlarını daha çok sevdim. ben bir şeyin elli ayrı sıfatla betimlenmesine, olmadık kelimelere olmadık anlamlar yüklenmesine bayılırım. metinleri sürekli bir 'tamlayan' 'tamlanan' cümbüşü.
- mutlaka denk gelmişsinizdir coşkulu bir tirata. benim en çok hissettiğim bu oldu, özellikle 'öznellik'ten kaçamadığı şiirlerinde. zaten matafor kullanmaktan oldukça uzunlu kısalı peşisıra cümleler yazdığı ve özellikle nida & ünlem çok fazla kullandığı için duyumsatıyor.
- Bu zamana kadar yazılmış bütün şiire öznel şiir deyip onları çöp saydığı için biçimi tamamen atıyor Rimbaud. Kitabı elinize ilk alsanız size 'kıssadan hisse' havası veriyor çünkü bildiğiniz nesir biçiminde şiirler ve bilinçli bi bulanıklıkta anlatıyor. ama beni rahatsız etmedi çünkü içerik kaotik olduğu için okurken ağdalı bir romanmış gibi gelmiyor. pek çok şiirinde, şiiri herhangi bir yerden bölüp alt satıra geçirseniz cümle öbeklerini, yine aynısını hissedersiniz. düşünün, Hugo'nun Sefilleri'ne "çok uzun bir şiir" diyor bir mektubunda, haşa.
Benim okuduğum bu baskının çevirisi bence çok güzeldi. zaten ilk 43 sayfa şairden önceki akımları ve şairin kendisini inceleyen bir çevirmen notu var. kitabın sonunda da şiirle ilgili açıklamalar var yine. ama tavsiyem, Rimbaud'un Cehennemde Bir Mevsim'in içinde bulunan "Sözün Simyası'nı okumanız, çünkü az çok kendi sanatını anlatıyor. Verlaine ile ilişkisi içinse 'Çingene Kız, Cehennemlik Koca'sı okunmalı. Ayrıca şuradan okuyabileceğiniz kitap (Rimbaud: The Works: A Season In Hell, Poems & Prose, Illuminations), bana oldukça fayda sağladı.
Belki ucuz bi tabir olacak ama bu yazıları, ailevi problemi olan, eşcinsel (bundan asla gerçek anlamda emin olamayacağım, verlaine'i kullanmış fikri daha çok yatıyor aklıma) ve kafası güzel bir serseri ergen yazıyor, siyasi olaylar acabası. bulunduğu dönem açısından yazdığı metinler, aykırılığı ve görülmemiş biçimi yüzünden etkilemiş, 21. yy'da beni de bu yüzden etkiledi.
Kendi kişisel zevkimden bağımsız bir serzenişte bulunmak istiyorum, ara ara gösterdiği gibi eğer ki kendini, yaşantısını ve ilişkilerini, hatta 'ben bir başkasıdır' sözündeki o başkasını anlatsaydı şiirlerinde, ne şahane olurdu. lsd kafasına hep ilgim vardır ancak ben içselleştirilmiş halini hep daha estetik bulmuşumdur, bu sinemada da öyle. çünkü tamam perdenin kalkmış halini resmediyorsun kelimelerle ve ee? nerede bu resmin duygusu, ritmi, ezgisi, spektrumu?
Yıllar önce okudum ama Paris Sıkıntısı beni ne kadar etkilemişti ve ben o zamanlar onun düzyazı şiiri olduğunu dahi bilmiyordum. haha.
Illuminations'tan özellikle Yaşamlar, ve Çocukluk, Tümceler, Sıkıntı, Cin; Cehennemde Bir Mevsim'den özellikle Kötü Kan, ve Cehennemde Bir Mevsim'e bayıldım. Fakat Yaşamlar gerçekten olağanüstü!
Bir de, Total Eclipse (1995) filmi tamamen Rimbaud - Verlaine ilişkisine odaklanmış bir film. Şairliğini fln aramanız boşuna bi çaba olur çünkü 20’sinden sonrasını da anlatmıyor. Bunun için A Season in Hell (1971)’e bakılabilir.
Rimbaud hakkında çok şey söylenmiş, çok şey yazılmış ve çok fazla incelenmiş. Ben yoruma sadece okurken 'ne okuduğumu hissettiğim'i yazacağım.
4 şey ile tanımlayabilirim Rimbaud'u: bilinçli esriklik, yoğun metaforlar, anlatımsı tirat, düz yazı.
- Çok yakın zamanda Baudelaire okuduğum için etkilerini az çok görebildim. bunun başlıcası bu esriklik dediğimizde daha güzel olan LSD kafası yani ister gözün arkası deyin, ister gözün önünden çekilmiş perde, bunları aşarak şiir yazma çabası bu. bazen madde alarak 'sahtesine (öyle diyor)', bazen de deneyimleme ile geçiyor bu "bilinmez"e.
- Diğeri de sembolizm ancak Baudelaire kadar etkin-etkileyici kullandığını söyleyemem (yahut diğer sembolistlere nazaran). kendini öznellikten uzak tutmaya çalıştığı için olabilir bu.
- metaforlarını daha çok sevdim. ben bir şeyin elli ayrı sıfatla betimlenmesine, olmadık kelimelere olmadık anlamlar yüklenmesine bayılırım. metinleri sürekli bir 'tamlayan' 'tamlanan' cümbüşü.
- mutlaka denk gelmişsinizdir coşkulu bir tirata. benim en çok hissettiğim bu oldu, özellikle 'öznellik'ten kaçamadığı şiirlerinde. zaten matafor kullanmaktan oldukça uzunlu kısalı peşisıra cümleler yazdığı ve özellikle nida & ünlem çok fazla kullandığı için duyumsatıyor.
- Bu zamana kadar yazılmış bütün şiire öznel şiir deyip onları çöp saydığı için biçimi tamamen atıyor Rimbaud. Kitabı elinize ilk alsanız size 'kıssadan hisse' havası veriyor çünkü bildiğiniz nesir biçiminde şiirler ve bilinçli bi bulanıklıkta anlatıyor. ama beni rahatsız etmedi çünkü içerik kaotik olduğu için okurken ağdalı bir romanmış gibi gelmiyor. pek çok şiirinde, şiiri herhangi bir yerden bölüp alt satıra geçirseniz cümle öbeklerini, yine aynısını hissedersiniz. düşünün, Hugo'nun Sefilleri'ne "çok uzun bir şiir" diyor bir mektubunda, haşa.
Benim okuduğum bu baskının çevirisi bence çok güzeldi. zaten ilk 43 sayfa şairden önceki akımları ve şairin kendisini inceleyen bir çevirmen notu var. kitabın sonunda da şiirle ilgili açıklamalar var yine. ama tavsiyem, Rimbaud'un Cehennemde Bir Mevsim'in içinde bulunan "Sözün Simyası'nı okumanız, çünkü az çok kendi sanatını anlatıyor. Verlaine ile ilişkisi içinse 'Çingene Kız, Cehennemlik Koca'sı okunmalı. Ayrıca şuradan okuyabileceğiniz kitap (Rimbaud: The Works: A Season In Hell, Poems & Prose, Illuminations), bana oldukça fayda sağladı.
Belki ucuz bi tabir olacak ama bu yazıları, ailevi problemi olan, eşcinsel (bundan asla gerçek anlamda emin olamayacağım, verlaine'i kullanmış fikri daha çok yatıyor aklıma) ve kafası güzel bir serseri ergen yazıyor, siyasi olaylar acabası. bulunduğu dönem açısından yazdığı metinler, aykırılığı ve görülmemiş biçimi yüzünden etkilemiş, 21. yy'da beni de bu yüzden etkiledi.
Kendi kişisel zevkimden bağımsız bir serzenişte bulunmak istiyorum, ara ara gösterdiği gibi eğer ki kendini, yaşantısını ve ilişkilerini, hatta 'ben bir başkasıdır' sözündeki o başkasını anlatsaydı şiirlerinde, ne şahane olurdu. lsd kafasına hep ilgim vardır ancak ben içselleştirilmiş halini hep daha estetik bulmuşumdur, bu sinemada da öyle. çünkü tamam perdenin kalkmış halini resmediyorsun kelimelerle ve ee? nerede bu resmin duygusu, ritmi, ezgisi, spektrumu?
Yıllar önce okudum ama Paris Sıkıntısı beni ne kadar etkilemişti ve ben o zamanlar onun düzyazı şiiri olduğunu dahi bilmiyordum. haha.
Illuminations'tan özellikle Yaşamlar, ve Çocukluk, Tümceler, Sıkıntı, Cin; Cehennemde Bir Mevsim'den özellikle Kötü Kan, ve Cehennemde Bir Mevsim'e bayıldım. Fakat Yaşamlar gerçekten olağanüstü!
"kanımı mayaladım."
xoxo
iko
Bir de, Total Eclipse (1995) filmi tamamen Rimbaud - Verlaine ilişkisine odaklanmış bir film. Şairliğini fln aramanız boşuna bi çaba olur çünkü 20’sinden sonrasını da anlatmıyor. Bunun için A Season in Hell (1971)’e bakılabilir.
October 18, 2017
Rimbaud is a regular autumn read for me, and every time I find another captivating detail I somehow overlooked before.
November 5, 2022
4,5☆
Wrażliwość Rimbauda jest niezwykła - przekorna, szorstka i wszystkiego wiecznie spragniona. To tomik pełen rozognionych myśli, płonących namiętnością życia. Gwałtowne, czasami lekko surrealistyczne wnikanie pod rzeczywistość alchemią słowa było naprawdę niepowtarzalnym doświadczeniem poetyckim. Momentami może trochę zbyt wydumanym i zaplątanym we własnej retoryce, jednak 28 znaczników mówi samo za siebie. Na pewno kiedyś wrócę, bo czuję, że mogłabym wyczytać więcej.
Wrażliwość Rimbauda jest niezwykła - przekorna, szorstka i wszystkiego wiecznie spragniona. To tomik pełen rozognionych myśli, płonących namiętnością życia. Gwałtowne, czasami lekko surrealistyczne wnikanie pod rzeczywistość alchemią słowa było naprawdę niepowtarzalnym doświadczeniem poetyckim. Momentami może trochę zbyt wydumanym i zaplątanym we własnej retoryce, jednak 28 znaczników mówi samo za siebie. Na pewno kiedyś wrócę, bo czuję, że mogłabym wyczytać więcej.
October 29, 2018
«Isto começou com risos de criança, em risos de criança há-de acabar.»
Rimbaud
Rimbaud é uma bandeira que muitos juraram mais pelo brasão do que pelo que representa, como, de resto, grande parte das bandeiras electivas. Quanto mais gente se sente representada por uma bandeira, menos representa ela alguma coisa: ficam as interpretações pessoais e as colecções de outono/inverno.
É um livro fértil em lemas inteligentes para justificar coisas insensatas e eu teria poupado muito trabalho à minha estupidez natural se o tivesse lido mais cedo. (Digo insensatas porque o mundo é como é e não vale a pena estrebuchar muito quando se pode dançar.) Há ali coisas que poderiam ter sido fatais, se lidas na altura certa:
«(...) Temos fé no veneno. Sabemos dar a nossa vida inteira todos dias.
Eis o tempo dos ASSASSINOS.»
Alguns poemas são representativos desse fenómeno citadino que é a poesia pastoril. Quem desespera na cidade, desespera até nos locais mais geórgicos; o desespero só tem um nome, e o resto é paisagem. Mas o desespero de Rimbaud não pode ser mapeado tão facilmente: «Abomino todos os modos de vida.»
Este livro evoca também muitas coisas que preferia esquecer. Os poemas tardios precoces de Rimbaud já cheiram ao meu estado de palinódia permanente:
«Depois, explicava os meus sofismas mágicos com a alucinação das palavras!
Acabei por sacralizar a desordem do meu espírito.»
É muito importante esquecer isto.
Poderia ainda falar da importância histórica e tal, mas deixo as considerações notariais para gente com mais vocação.
***
Nota: Cesariny é o tradutor; o pequeno pedaço de prosa, que ele escreve neste livro, vale bem a pena.
Rimbaud
Rimbaud é uma bandeira que muitos juraram mais pelo brasão do que pelo que representa, como, de resto, grande parte das bandeiras electivas. Quanto mais gente se sente representada por uma bandeira, menos representa ela alguma coisa: ficam as interpretações pessoais e as colecções de outono/inverno.
É um livro fértil em lemas inteligentes para justificar coisas insensatas e eu teria poupado muito trabalho à minha estupidez natural se o tivesse lido mais cedo. (Digo insensatas porque o mundo é como é e não vale a pena estrebuchar muito quando se pode dançar.) Há ali coisas que poderiam ter sido fatais, se lidas na altura certa:
«(...) Temos fé no veneno. Sabemos dar a nossa vida inteira todos dias.
Eis o tempo dos ASSASSINOS.»
Alguns poemas são representativos desse fenómeno citadino que é a poesia pastoril. Quem desespera na cidade, desespera até nos locais mais geórgicos; o desespero só tem um nome, e o resto é paisagem. Mas o desespero de Rimbaud não pode ser mapeado tão facilmente: «Abomino todos os modos de vida.»
Este livro evoca também muitas coisas que preferia esquecer. Os poemas tardios precoces de Rimbaud já cheiram ao meu estado de palinódia permanente:
«Depois, explicava os meus sofismas mágicos com a alucinação das palavras!
Acabei por sacralizar a desordem do meu espírito.»
É muito importante esquecer isto.
Poderia ainda falar da importância histórica e tal, mas deixo as considerações notariais para gente com mais vocação.
***
Nota: Cesariny é o tradutor; o pequeno pedaço de prosa, que ele escreve neste livro, vale bem a pena.
July 30, 2017
"Quando o mundo estiver reduzido a um só bosque negro para os nossos olhos espantados — a uma praia para duas crianças sinceras, — a uma casa musical para a nossa clara simpatia — encontrar-vos-ei.
Quando aqui só haja um velho, belo e calmo, rodeado de um «luxo inaudito» — ajoelhar-me-ei.
Quando for eu toda a vossa memória — seja aquela que sabe garrotar-vos — estrangular-vos-ei."
* * *
"Quando somos muito fortes, — quem recua? muito alegres, — quem cai no ridículo? Quando somos muito maus, — que fariam de nós?
Alindai-vos, bailai, desatai a rir. — Eu nunca poderei atirar o Amor pela janela."
Arthur Rimbaud nasceu em França em 1854. As suas obras poéticas mais importantes — Iluminações e Uma Cerveja no Inferno — foram escritas na adolescência. Aos vinte anos decide abandonar a escrita e dedicar-se ao trabalho: comércio de café e tráfico de armas. Esteve envolvido num escândalo pela sua relação com Paul Verlaine. Morreu de cancro aos trinta e sete anos.
Como "dizem" as três estrelas que coloquei nesta obra, a poesia de Rimbaud não "fala comigo". Excepto em alguns poemas de Iluminações, pouco entendi ou senti, quer na primeira vez que o li (há uns meses), quer agora. Termino com o meu poema preferido — que já deixei, por aqui, numa review de outro livro:
"REALEZA
Uma bela manhã, num povo de gente adorável, um homem e uma mulher soberbos gritavam na praça pública: «Amigos, quero que ela seja rainha!» «Quero ser rainha!» Ela ria e tremia. Ele falava de revelação, de prova terminada. Desfaleciam nos braços um do outro.
E efectivamente foram reis, por toda uma manhã, quando os véus carminados se ergueram sobre as coisas, e por toda uma tarde, para os lados dos jardins de palmeiras."
Quando aqui só haja um velho, belo e calmo, rodeado de um «luxo inaudito» — ajoelhar-me-ei.
Quando for eu toda a vossa memória — seja aquela que sabe garrotar-vos — estrangular-vos-ei."
* * *
"Quando somos muito fortes, — quem recua? muito alegres, — quem cai no ridículo? Quando somos muito maus, — que fariam de nós?
Alindai-vos, bailai, desatai a rir. — Eu nunca poderei atirar o Amor pela janela."
Arthur Rimbaud nasceu em França em 1854. As suas obras poéticas mais importantes — Iluminações e Uma Cerveja no Inferno — foram escritas na adolescência. Aos vinte anos decide abandonar a escrita e dedicar-se ao trabalho: comércio de café e tráfico de armas. Esteve envolvido num escândalo pela sua relação com Paul Verlaine. Morreu de cancro aos trinta e sete anos.
Como "dizem" as três estrelas que coloquei nesta obra, a poesia de Rimbaud não "fala comigo". Excepto em alguns poemas de Iluminações, pouco entendi ou senti, quer na primeira vez que o li (há uns meses), quer agora. Termino com o meu poema preferido — que já deixei, por aqui, numa review de outro livro:
"REALEZA
Uma bela manhã, num povo de gente adorável, um homem e uma mulher soberbos gritavam na praça pública: «Amigos, quero que ela seja rainha!» «Quero ser rainha!» Ela ria e tremia. Ele falava de revelação, de prova terminada. Desfaleciam nos braços um do outro.
E efectivamente foram reis, por toda uma manhã, quando os véus carminados se ergueram sobre as coisas, e por toda uma tarde, para os lados dos jardins de palmeiras."
December 17, 2014
I am going to try to make this review brief, particularly as I've already reviewed about 4 other translations of Rimbaud's poetry (by Varèse, Fowlie, Mason and Schmidt) and in my last review of one of these (of Schmidt's treatment of Rimbaud) I made a concise comparison of each of the different translations, really putting my support behind Mason's translation, finding Fowlie too literal and feeling that Schmidt took too many liberties in his translation.
Bertrand Mathieu's translation of A Season in Hell & Illuminations, to me, comes closest to Schmidt's. In many poems the reader gets the essence of Rimbaud, but I feel it is Mathieu's voice that is most commonly communicated on the page. Of course, I am basing this largely off of other translations that I have read. Mathieu's translation came out in 1991 (pre-Mason [2002]) and in his postscript he draws some comparisons between his interpretations and those of Varèse and Fowlie, arguing that their approach erred too often on the side of conservatism. I don't disagree with him here, but I think that he and Schmidt tend too often to err on the other side of the line, missing that very delicate balance that Mason best achieves.
I think that what I found most objectionable about Mathieu's translation was his attempt to push the language of Rimbaud forward into the late 20th century, using modern street slang that he felt would today be most in tune with the punk slang often used by the little poète maudit, translating l'ami as "the buddy" rather than as "the friend" and les seins as "titties" rather than "breasts" (just looking at one poem -- "Vigils" -- which Mathieu translates as 'Night-Watches,' for one example that I found particularly sophomoric in its style). Another thing that bothered me was that he translated "ennui" as "boredom" throughout, as have many translators of Rimbaud, but I take the position of James McGowan in his translation of Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal that ennui is something more "forceful" than boredom and that it should just be left as is, especially as the word is well enough known in American English. In other places I felt that Mathieu stripped the beauty out of certain phrases, such as the opening lines of Une Saison en Enfer, which has been translated by others as follows:
Varèse: "Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed."
Schmidt: "Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed."
Fowlie: "Long ago, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where everyone's heart was generous, and where all wines flowed."
Mason: "Long ago, if my memory serves, life was a feast where every heart was open, where every wine flowed."
And now Mathieu's: "A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing."
As stated early on, one gets a faint essence of Rimbaud, but what one is really reading here, I feel, is Mathieu. It's not bad, but it's not the Rimbaud that I've come to know and love. So why do I give it such a high rating -- 4.5 stars, let's say?
Well, first, it still does have the essence of Rimbaud and that counts for something, even if the language has become somewhat mangled. Second, I quite enjoy having the English and French texts side-by-side (a favored feature that can also be found in the translations of Fowlie and Varèse). And, finally, I really enjoyed the translator's preface and postscript. I learned some new things about Rimbaud's life from these, but the veracity of some things is questionable as certain key biographical details that Mathieu includes completely conflict with points made in the other translations that I have read. I think I will probably read Enid Starkie's biography of Rimbaud at some point and try to see what light she can offer. Of course, Rimbaud is not a poet who can easily be pinned down and the stories included by Mathieu, while different from those of other translators, are very interesting nonetheless -- missing pieces to a jigsaw puzzle that will never be complete. And Mathieu's postscript is also valuable in the sense that it, unlike other translations, points the reader toward works that influenced the young Rimbaud, including the works of Swedenborg, Eliphas Levi and the novels of Balzac. Quite interesting and worthy of further investigation.
If only for the preface and postscript, this is a work worth reading, but I would not recommend it to one discovering Rimbaud (by way of some translator) for the first time. These poems need to be read (particularly as the prose poem was still so novel at the time -- employed very well by Rimbaud, but first and equally well by Baudelaire), but start with Mason or even Fowlie, and move on from there. So much for the brief review that I had set out to write at the beginning.
Bertrand Mathieu's translation of A Season in Hell & Illuminations, to me, comes closest to Schmidt's. In many poems the reader gets the essence of Rimbaud, but I feel it is Mathieu's voice that is most commonly communicated on the page. Of course, I am basing this largely off of other translations that I have read. Mathieu's translation came out in 1991 (pre-Mason [2002]) and in his postscript he draws some comparisons between his interpretations and those of Varèse and Fowlie, arguing that their approach erred too often on the side of conservatism. I don't disagree with him here, but I think that he and Schmidt tend too often to err on the other side of the line, missing that very delicate balance that Mason best achieves.
I think that what I found most objectionable about Mathieu's translation was his attempt to push the language of Rimbaud forward into the late 20th century, using modern street slang that he felt would today be most in tune with the punk slang often used by the little poète maudit, translating l'ami as "the buddy" rather than as "the friend" and les seins as "titties" rather than "breasts" (just looking at one poem -- "Vigils" -- which Mathieu translates as 'Night-Watches,' for one example that I found particularly sophomoric in its style). Another thing that bothered me was that he translated "ennui" as "boredom" throughout, as have many translators of Rimbaud, but I take the position of James McGowan in his translation of Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal that ennui is something more "forceful" than boredom and that it should just be left as is, especially as the word is well enough known in American English. In other places I felt that Mathieu stripped the beauty out of certain phrases, such as the opening lines of Une Saison en Enfer, which has been translated by others as follows:
Varèse: "Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed."
Schmidt: "Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed."
Fowlie: "Long ago, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where everyone's heart was generous, and where all wines flowed."
Mason: "Long ago, if my memory serves, life was a feast where every heart was open, where every wine flowed."
And now Mathieu's: "A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing."
As stated early on, one gets a faint essence of Rimbaud, but what one is really reading here, I feel, is Mathieu. It's not bad, but it's not the Rimbaud that I've come to know and love. So why do I give it such a high rating -- 4.5 stars, let's say?
Well, first, it still does have the essence of Rimbaud and that counts for something, even if the language has become somewhat mangled. Second, I quite enjoy having the English and French texts side-by-side (a favored feature that can also be found in the translations of Fowlie and Varèse). And, finally, I really enjoyed the translator's preface and postscript. I learned some new things about Rimbaud's life from these, but the veracity of some things is questionable as certain key biographical details that Mathieu includes completely conflict with points made in the other translations that I have read. I think I will probably read Enid Starkie's biography of Rimbaud at some point and try to see what light she can offer. Of course, Rimbaud is not a poet who can easily be pinned down and the stories included by Mathieu, while different from those of other translators, are very interesting nonetheless -- missing pieces to a jigsaw puzzle that will never be complete. And Mathieu's postscript is also valuable in the sense that it, unlike other translations, points the reader toward works that influenced the young Rimbaud, including the works of Swedenborg, Eliphas Levi and the novels of Balzac. Quite interesting and worthy of further investigation.
If only for the preface and postscript, this is a work worth reading, but I would not recommend it to one discovering Rimbaud (by way of some translator) for the first time. These poems need to be read (particularly as the prose poem was still so novel at the time -- employed very well by Rimbaud, but first and equally well by Baudelaire), but start with Mason or even Fowlie, and move on from there. So much for the brief review that I had set out to write at the beginning.
November 5, 2022
Zakochałam się.
Liczba zużytych na ten tomik znaczników jest zatrważająca, a rimbaud to poeta nad poetami (i chyba mój ulubiony z wyklętych)
Najbardziej urzekły mnie „Majaczenia” oraz „Miasto”.
„Widziałam całą dekorację, którą otaczał się w wyobraźni: ubrania, tkaniny, meble; użyczałam mu broni, innej twarzy. Wszystko, z czym się stykał, widziałam tak, jak on sam pragnąłby to dla siebie stworzyć. Kiedy jego umysł zdawał mi się bezwładny, towarzyszyłam mu, daleko, w osobliwych i zawiłych uczynkach, dobrych albo złych: pewna byłam, że nigdy nie wejdę do jego świata. Ile godzin czuwałam po nocy u boku jego drogiego ciała we śnie, doszukując się przyczyn, dla których tak mocno pragnie uciec od realności! Człowiek nie miał nigdy podobnego pragnienia. Przyznawałam - nie obawiając się o niego - że stanowić mógłby poważną groźbę dla społeczeństwa. - Czy zna tajemne sposoby, żeby zmienić życie? Nie, szuka ich jedynie - odpowiadałam sobie. Jego miłosierdzie jest, krótko mówiąc, zaklęte, i jestem w nim uwięziona. Żadna inna dusza nie miałaby dość siły - siły rozpaczy! - by je znosić i zostać podopieczną jego i kochanką. Nigdy nie wyobrażałam go sobie zresztą z inną duszą: widzi się tylko własnego Anioła, nigdy czyjegoś Anioła - tak myślę. Byłam w jego duszy jak w pałacu, który opróżniono, by nikt nie ujrzał osoby tak bezecnej: to wszystko. Niestety! Zależałam od niego. Ale co zamierzał zrobić z moim bladym i podłym istnieniem? Nie każąc mi umierać, nie czynił mnie przez to lepszą! W żałosnym gniewie mówiłam mu czasem: “Rozumiem cię”. Wzruszał na to ramionami.
Z bezustannie dokuczającym mi strapieniem i coraz niżej upadając we własnych oczach - i we wszystkich oczach, które zechciałyby na mnie spojrzeć, gdybym po wieczność nie była skazana na powszechne o mnie zapomnienie! - coraz silnej łaknęłam jego względów. Jego pocałunki i przyjazne uściski były mi niebem, posępnym niebem, gdzie wstępowałam z pragnieniem, by mnie tam pozostawiono, nędzną, ślepą, głuchą i niemą. Przywykłam już do tego. Myślałam o nas jak o dwojgu prostodusznych dzieciach przechadzających się swobodnie po Raju smutku. Byliśmy ze sobą zgodni. Współdziałaliśmy, do głębi wzruszeni. Po przeszywającej pieszczocie mówił jednak: “Jak dziwacznie, kiedy mnie już nie będzie, wyda ci się to wszystko, co przeżyłaś. Kiedy nie będziesz już miała moich ramion wokół szyi ani mojej piersi dla spoczynku, ani tych ust na swoich oczach. Bo trzeba mi będzie odejść któregoś dnia bardzo daleko. Muszę dopomóc także innym: to mój obowiązek. Choćby nie było to przyjemne... droga duszyczko...” I przeczuwałam zaraz, jaka będę po jego odejściu ogarnięta szałem, strącona w najstraszliwszą ciemność: śmierć. Wymogłam na nim obietnicę, że nie porzuci mnie. Złożył ze dwadzieścia razy tę obietnicę kochanka. Było to równie płoche jak moje słowa do niego: “Rozumiem cię”.”
Liczba zużytych na ten tomik znaczników jest zatrważająca, a rimbaud to poeta nad poetami (i chyba mój ulubiony z wyklętych)
Najbardziej urzekły mnie „Majaczenia” oraz „Miasto”.
„Widziałam całą dekorację, którą otaczał się w wyobraźni: ubrania, tkaniny, meble; użyczałam mu broni, innej twarzy. Wszystko, z czym się stykał, widziałam tak, jak on sam pragnąłby to dla siebie stworzyć. Kiedy jego umysł zdawał mi się bezwładny, towarzyszyłam mu, daleko, w osobliwych i zawiłych uczynkach, dobrych albo złych: pewna byłam, że nigdy nie wejdę do jego świata. Ile godzin czuwałam po nocy u boku jego drogiego ciała we śnie, doszukując się przyczyn, dla których tak mocno pragnie uciec od realności! Człowiek nie miał nigdy podobnego pragnienia. Przyznawałam - nie obawiając się o niego - że stanowić mógłby poważną groźbę dla społeczeństwa. - Czy zna tajemne sposoby, żeby zmienić życie? Nie, szuka ich jedynie - odpowiadałam sobie. Jego miłosierdzie jest, krótko mówiąc, zaklęte, i jestem w nim uwięziona. Żadna inna dusza nie miałaby dość siły - siły rozpaczy! - by je znosić i zostać podopieczną jego i kochanką. Nigdy nie wyobrażałam go sobie zresztą z inną duszą: widzi się tylko własnego Anioła, nigdy czyjegoś Anioła - tak myślę. Byłam w jego duszy jak w pałacu, który opróżniono, by nikt nie ujrzał osoby tak bezecnej: to wszystko. Niestety! Zależałam od niego. Ale co zamierzał zrobić z moim bladym i podłym istnieniem? Nie każąc mi umierać, nie czynił mnie przez to lepszą! W żałosnym gniewie mówiłam mu czasem: “Rozumiem cię”. Wzruszał na to ramionami.
Z bezustannie dokuczającym mi strapieniem i coraz niżej upadając we własnych oczach - i we wszystkich oczach, które zechciałyby na mnie spojrzeć, gdybym po wieczność nie była skazana na powszechne o mnie zapomnienie! - coraz silnej łaknęłam jego względów. Jego pocałunki i przyjazne uściski były mi niebem, posępnym niebem, gdzie wstępowałam z pragnieniem, by mnie tam pozostawiono, nędzną, ślepą, głuchą i niemą. Przywykłam już do tego. Myślałam o nas jak o dwojgu prostodusznych dzieciach przechadzających się swobodnie po Raju smutku. Byliśmy ze sobą zgodni. Współdziałaliśmy, do głębi wzruszeni. Po przeszywającej pieszczocie mówił jednak: “Jak dziwacznie, kiedy mnie już nie będzie, wyda ci się to wszystko, co przeżyłaś. Kiedy nie będziesz już miała moich ramion wokół szyi ani mojej piersi dla spoczynku, ani tych ust na swoich oczach. Bo trzeba mi będzie odejść któregoś dnia bardzo daleko. Muszę dopomóc także innym: to mój obowiązek. Choćby nie było to przyjemne... droga duszyczko...” I przeczuwałam zaraz, jaka będę po jego odejściu ogarnięta szałem, strącona w najstraszliwszą ciemność: śmierć. Wymogłam na nim obietnicę, że nie porzuci mnie. Złożył ze dwadzieścia razy tę obietnicę kochanka. Było to równie płoche jak moje słowa do niego: “Rozumiem cię”.”
January 16, 2010
A Season in Hell & Illuminations was a book that I was introduced to in the dead of night. I was handed the text and asked to read and, being me, proceeded to open to random pages and read aloud in an impassioned tone. When read like this - in the middle of the night with all of its magic and attractions, the text is like fire.
Rimbaud's words alternatively scorch and caress, they raise up the most enlivened fancies and play out dark fantasies unlike anything else one could ever be exposed to. Rimbaud becomes the Father of all that is brutal and metal, he becomes the embodiment of debauchery and dark poetry; in this light he is pure electricity, and being that, strange, mysterious, and wonderful.
In the light of day, his prose loses some of that intensity. He becomes something tamer, better understood. In light of the preface, Rimbaud runs the risk of even failing to be purely Rimbaudian - he is human, after all, and simply a man, behind a desk, writing... I feel he loses his allure in this light, rather than gains it. Yes, he is human, but the legend is so much more fun and eagerly traced...?
I struggle between giving this novel three stars or four - in the right conditions, he is truly incredible and quite the beloved read. For now, I shall settle with three, and perhaps increase upon a later date.
Rimbaud's words alternatively scorch and caress, they raise up the most enlivened fancies and play out dark fantasies unlike anything else one could ever be exposed to. Rimbaud becomes the Father of all that is brutal and metal, he becomes the embodiment of debauchery and dark poetry; in this light he is pure electricity, and being that, strange, mysterious, and wonderful.
In the light of day, his prose loses some of that intensity. He becomes something tamer, better understood. In light of the preface, Rimbaud runs the risk of even failing to be purely Rimbaudian - he is human, after all, and simply a man, behind a desk, writing... I feel he loses his allure in this light, rather than gains it. Yes, he is human, but the legend is so much more fun and eagerly traced...?
I struggle between giving this novel three stars or four - in the right conditions, he is truly incredible and quite the beloved read. For now, I shall settle with three, and perhaps increase upon a later date.
August 5, 2008
Translations matter with Rimbaud. Francophile extraordinaire and Rimbaud enthusiast Dennis Cooper rates Enid Peschel Rhodes' translation published by Oxford Univrersity Press as the best. For my taste, he's absolutely right.
July 12, 2021
Review coming up next week !
November 20, 2022
For Schopenhauer, the deepest problem of the self, afflicting itself, is our individuality. The will to live must live and fester on itself since nothing exists beside it, and it becomes temporarily will-less, a mere passive mirror of reality, where its attachment to suffering and satisfaction, happiness and unhappiness, willing and nothingness is a farce we are all forced to endure.
In Arthur Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell & Illuminations, to extinguish all human will to live, all human hope from one’s soul is to find eternity, a semblance of universality that makes the living of life more bearable, where the best thing to be and become is an outcast to one’s desires, to find in fleeing all the lost selves we’ve had to inhabit.
Morality and intuition, as a result, are possible on this shedding of self; the appearance of comprehending the self, one’s attachment to desire and emotion, the completeness of the human condition, all this makes up a part of reality where the denial of death and suffering are manifest.
The only route to its antithesis, of living an authentic life, of non-existence, is to break from life itself as a source of intrinsic value; it can be pursued, according to Rimbaud, by rebelling against the excesses of your very soul.
This is what makes A Season in Hell so impossible to write about and so potent... a grotesque fascinating read.
In Arthur Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell & Illuminations, to extinguish all human will to live, all human hope from one’s soul is to find eternity, a semblance of universality that makes the living of life more bearable, where the best thing to be and become is an outcast to one’s desires, to find in fleeing all the lost selves we’ve had to inhabit.
Morality and intuition, as a result, are possible on this shedding of self; the appearance of comprehending the self, one’s attachment to desire and emotion, the completeness of the human condition, all this makes up a part of reality where the denial of death and suffering are manifest.
The only route to its antithesis, of living an authentic life, of non-existence, is to break from life itself as a source of intrinsic value; it can be pursued, according to Rimbaud, by rebelling against the excesses of your very soul.
This is what makes A Season in Hell so impossible to write about and so potent... a grotesque fascinating read.
Read
February 10, 2017A Season in Hell & Illuminations, transl. Wyatt Mason
Having become absurdly near apoplectic in the search for a translation of Baudelaire that I loved, I let enjoyment return by instead reading one of his close kin. There wasn't a shortage of Rimbaud translations which felt right; Louise Varese or John Sturrock, or this one I chose for reasons I can't exactly remember.
As these are prose poems without conventional, clear focus, sometimes more like notes, I thought some readers must decided they were another set of the emperor's new clothes.[4 or 5, I can't decide.] In my teens I wonder if, regardless of exalted reputation among heroes of mine, I would have set Rimbaud aside after one reading after ... not quite getting into it ... as I did with Beat poetry. This stuff probably would have been wasted on my numb and spiky self back then, but still I wish with all my heart that I had read the French decadent poets when I was somewhat younger and had these lines pulsing in my veins for the last seven, or at least two, years.
Rimbaud's style is elevated and incantatory and comes very close to inducing the state I call inspiration. (Others, I'm sure, have different experiences of it and they have also been able to do more useful things with it... For me it even has a particular type of breathing associated with it and it was quite remarkable to notice this happening simply from reading.) On one plane I could still see how odd and flimsy these fragmented prose poems could look to some, yet the works were also a form of intoxicant: one which clears, not fogs, the mind and feels as if it opens doors. Right or wrong, the works feel as if they must have been written in some laser-focus fever state, tunnel visioned, nothing but the writing, the writing and the most basic of fuel; perfunctory sleep, unwashed, eventually reeking hair and clothes but a mind in cold fire.
Perhaps this is not just some weird wittering after all, given the influence Rimbaud has had on so many.
A Felt lyric says "you're reading from A Season in Hell but you don't know what it's about" but there's no shame in that when academics can't quite agree on its subject either.
the stanza L'epoux infernal is evidently about his former lover Paul Verlaine, like Rimbaud's own more exalted version of the jottings I and countless others gradually make in screeds and MB, so as to trap thought balloons containing relics of some lost one. Much else, though is a nebulous cluster of beautiful or anguished images.
"Mood piece" is a hack phrase I keep hearing in description of films with a similar effect. Reading both poems was like swimming in a heavy air. Illuminations was more pleasurable, sometimes psychedelic, an experience of incense (strong ancient stuff, not Nag Champa from a yoga shop), patterned cloth and the soft jangle of belled bracelets on dancers' ankles and wrists. A conjuration of the east, breadcrumbs for the hippie trail. I felt it unlocking new ways of saying things I'd thought of for aeons, and cursed not having known it before.
Need more.
Having become absurdly near apoplectic in the search for a translation of Baudelaire that I loved, I let enjoyment return by instead reading one of his close kin. There wasn't a shortage of Rimbaud translations which felt right; Louise Varese or John Sturrock, or this one I chose for reasons I can't exactly remember.
As these are prose poems without conventional, clear focus, sometimes more like notes, I thought some readers must decided they were another set of the emperor's new clothes.[4 or 5, I can't decide.] In my teens I wonder if, regardless of exalted reputation among heroes of mine, I would have set Rimbaud aside after one reading after ... not quite getting into it ... as I did with Beat poetry. This stuff probably would have been wasted on my numb and spiky self back then, but still I wish with all my heart that I had read the French decadent poets when I was somewhat younger and had these lines pulsing in my veins for the last seven, or at least two, years.
Rimbaud's style is elevated and incantatory and comes very close to inducing the state I call inspiration. (Others, I'm sure, have different experiences of it and they have also been able to do more useful things with it... For me it even has a particular type of breathing associated with it and it was quite remarkable to notice this happening simply from reading.) On one plane I could still see how odd and flimsy these fragmented prose poems could look to some, yet the works were also a form of intoxicant: one which clears, not fogs, the mind and feels as if it opens doors. Right or wrong, the works feel as if they must have been written in some laser-focus fever state, tunnel visioned, nothing but the writing, the writing and the most basic of fuel; perfunctory sleep, unwashed, eventually reeking hair and clothes but a mind in cold fire.
Perhaps this is not just some weird wittering after all, given the influence Rimbaud has had on so many.
A Felt lyric says "you're reading from A Season in Hell but you don't know what it's about" but there's no shame in that when academics can't quite agree on its subject either.
the stanza L'epoux infernal is evidently about his former lover Paul Verlaine, like Rimbaud's own more exalted version of the jottings I and countless others gradually make in screeds and MB, so as to trap thought balloons containing relics of some lost one. Much else, though is a nebulous cluster of beautiful or anguished images.
"Mood piece" is a hack phrase I keep hearing in description of films with a similar effect. Reading both poems was like swimming in a heavy air. Illuminations was more pleasurable, sometimes psychedelic, an experience of incense (strong ancient stuff, not Nag Champa from a yoga shop), patterned cloth and the soft jangle of belled bracelets on dancers' ankles and wrists. A conjuration of the east, breadcrumbs for the hippie trail. I felt it unlocking new ways of saying things I'd thought of for aeons, and cursed not having known it before.
Need more.
January 23, 2019
“A Season in Hell” is infinitely more meaningful, and powerfully sad, after having read the details of Rimbaud’s life and exit from crafting poetry—which he considered himself a failure and reject among his peers at doing. Edmund White’s bio of Rimbaud shows him in full portrait—a restless, rebellious genius known for drinking absinthe and bashing around in cities for weeks on end, and lesser known for his solo travels on foot, walking through war-torn France and Africa hundreds of miles at a time to thrive in business, one time receiving a diagnosis from a doctor that he had walked so much “it caused his ribs to tear through his skin.”
Through this lens, “A Season in Hell” is not just a great work of poetry, but a glimpse into the driving force behind a human being who, I believe, wanted to be loved as intensely as he lived and in a style so fiercely and fearlessly that it killed him. This was 1870s Europe, by the way, not 1960s America or 2000s UK. It cannot be stated enough how much Rimbaud was a pioneer for lyricism and lifestyle, how huge of balls it took to be him and how evident those large balls are in his writing. And by the way, fuck Jim Morrison.
Through this lens, “A Season in Hell” is not just a great work of poetry, but a glimpse into the driving force behind a human being who, I believe, wanted to be loved as intensely as he lived and in a style so fiercely and fearlessly that it killed him. This was 1870s Europe, by the way, not 1960s America or 2000s UK. It cannot be stated enough how much Rimbaud was a pioneer for lyricism and lifestyle, how huge of balls it took to be him and how evident those large balls are in his writing. And by the way, fuck Jim Morrison.
Currently reading
October 29, 2008poets repulse me with their god forsaken wankerings. However, I've decided that I can include most other artists and humans for that matter, in the repulsive category so I decided to set my hatred aside and get this book. I'm really enjoying it.
March 3, 2007
i read this during my personal season in hell that i thought would never end. it was good to know that rimbaud and i have some things in common.
August 12, 2021
Sheer poetical madness no outcome. Better if could read French I'll bet.
January 18, 2023
Premettendo che sono convinto vada letto in lingua originale, negli stralci in cui si intravede la magica prosa del folle genio di Rimbaud, è sublime.
Scrivere in questo modo a 18 anni dopo una delusione amorosa forse è il sogno di chiunque. Sono incredibili e cupe le immagini che è in grado di creare in questo viaggio nell'oblio. Il più grande dei poeti maledetti? forse; sicuramente il più emozionante.
Scrivere in questo modo a 18 anni dopo una delusione amorosa forse è il sogno di chiunque. Sono incredibili e cupe le immagini che è in grado di creare in questo viaggio nell'oblio. Il più grande dei poeti maledetti? forse; sicuramente il più emozionante.
Intanto è la vigilia. Accogliamo tutti gli influssi di vigore e di tenerezza reale. E all’aurora, armati di un’ardente pazienza, entreremo nelle splendide città.
Parlavo di una mano amica! È un bel vantaggio poter ridere dei vecchi amori menzogneri, e colpire di vergogna quelle coppie bugiarde, – ho visto l’inferno delle donne, laggiù; – e ora potrò possedere la verità in un solo corpo e anima.
June 7, 2008
When I was a mere slip of a boy and my flesh tasted like chicken and goth had not quite creeped into non-existence I would sulk in dimly lit buses reading Rimbaud.
"Illuminations" reminds me of Baudelaire's "Paris Spleen" in that these are not poems so much as they are prose pieces, little snatches of light of varying shades. This is good reading on rainy nights.
"Illuminations" reminds me of Baudelaire's "Paris Spleen" in that these are not poems so much as they are prose pieces, little snatches of light of varying shades. This is good reading on rainy nights.
July 25, 2020
Asiliğin, asilerin kahramanı olarak görülmüş, aykırı bir şair Rimbaud. Dizeleri de diğer tüm kuralları yıktığı gibi yıkmış, düzyazı şiirler yazmış bir öncü. Özgür dizeyle yazmadığı şiirlerinin yakılmasını isteyen bir çocuk şair (İyi ki yakılmamış da Esrik Gemi gibi bir şiirden mahrum kalmamışız). Bu kitap istediği gibi tamamen özgür dizeyle yazdığı Illuminations ve Cehennemde Bir Mevsim’den oluşuyor. Şiirlerin çevirmeni olan Erdoğan Alkan’ın (Rimbaud şiirleri için en sevdiğim çevirmen, tavsiye ederim) 43 sayfalık oldukça bilgilendirici bir önsözü de var. Rimbaud, ilişki yaşadığı Verlaine ve bir tanrı olarak nitelendirdiği Baudelaire’le birlikte modern Türk şiirinin gelişimini etkileyen şairlerden. Erdoğan Alkan, “Sanırım Bilinmeyen’e Rimbaud sanrıyla, hayalle ve düşle ulaşmaya çalıştı.” diyor. Bu cümlenin değerli gördüğümüz, sanatın zirvesine ulaştığını düşündüğümüz sanatçıları özetlediğine inanıyorum. Rimbaud’nun bilinçli olarak Bilinmeyen’e ulaşma çabası onu benim gözümde bir deha haline getiriyor. Birçok sanatçının ilham perisi olan bu zekâ, doruk noktasında bırakmış şiiri. Kendisi pek resimden hoşlanmazmış ama onun şiirlerini okuduğumda zihnimi seyretmeye doyamıyorum. Bir cümlesinin içinde yüzbinlerce tablo saklı, belki de bu yüzden sevmiyordur resmi. Rimbaud’yu okuması ve anlaması çok kolay diyemem; ama eminim onun şiirlerini okuduğunuzda gördüğünüz gündüz düşlerini ve ardında bıraktığı hisleri ya çok seveceksiniz, ya da oldukça ürkeceksiniz.
May 10, 2023
şimdi kim deli?
April 20, 2019
I first laid my eyes on the name 'Rimbaud' while reading Olivia Laing's
In A Lonely City
. I was partly curious and partly intrigued with the section dedicated to Wojnarovicz's Rimbaud in New York. This exhibit featured a number of people who donned Rimbaud masks with their photographs taken at different underground locations in New York. A hint of rebellion underneath the grit and grim can be felt in these photos. Rimbaud's face was pensive; prim and proper.
"I'm now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I'm working at turning myself into a seer. You won't understand any of this, and I'm almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It's really not my fault."
Rimbaud believed that he can attain full creative power by being the most corrupt version of himself. He lived a vagrant, libertine life which earned him the reputation of being an enfant terrible all the while having a tumultuous and lustful liaison with another poet, Paul Verlaine. In the span of three years he published his major works A Season In Hell and Illuminations. Afterwards, he gave up writing, travelled around Europe, and never looked back. These major works were lauded and praised by critics alike with their influence apparent on modernism, surrealism and even punk movements.
This paperback edition is a back-to-back collection of Rimbaud's two major works. His works were often in free-verse; evocative, elusive, often filled with symbolism which I personally found rather puzzling most of the time. I acknowledge that I may not have enough knowledge to completely understand them and I would not even try to write my interpretations. Most of these related to his personal life which were often nostalgic, tragic, and drastic. This collection greeted with the striking sentence ** "Long ago, if my memory serves, life was a feast where every heart was open, where every wine flowed." and who was I not to buy it when it moved me? Altogether, a solid collection which burned like hell and illuminated like fireflies dancing in the moonlight.
My takeaways from this book:
** "How I suffer, how I scream: I truly suffer. There's nothing I wouldn't contemplate doing now, burdened as I am with the contempt of the most contemptible of hearts." (p12)
** "I inhibited his heart as one might a palace: it was empty, precisely so no one would learn that a person as ignoble as you were there: and there it is. Alas! I needed him. But what did he want with me, drab and lifeless as I was? He didn’t make me a better person, and he didn’t manage to kill me! Sad, angry, I would occasionally say, ‘I understand you.’ He’d just shrug his shoulders." (p14)
** "I became opera: I saw that all living things were doomed, to bliss: that's not living; it's just a way to waste what we have, a drain. Morality is a weakness of mind." (p21)
** "One must be absolutely modern." (p28)
** "Even if I create all your memories — even if I know how to control you — I'll suffocate you." (p43)
** "Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity. What will become of the world when you leave? No matter what happens, no trace of now will remain." (p61)
** "Reality always too troublesome for my exalted character." (p75)
"I'm now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I'm working at turning myself into a seer. You won't understand any of this, and I'm almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It's really not my fault."
Rimbaud believed that he can attain full creative power by being the most corrupt version of himself. He lived a vagrant, libertine life which earned him the reputation of being an enfant terrible all the while having a tumultuous and lustful liaison with another poet, Paul Verlaine. In the span of three years he published his major works A Season In Hell and Illuminations. Afterwards, he gave up writing, travelled around Europe, and never looked back. These major works were lauded and praised by critics alike with their influence apparent on modernism, surrealism and even punk movements.
This paperback edition is a back-to-back collection of Rimbaud's two major works. His works were often in free-verse; evocative, elusive, often filled with symbolism which I personally found rather puzzling most of the time. I acknowledge that I may not have enough knowledge to completely understand them and I would not even try to write my interpretations. Most of these related to his personal life which were often nostalgic, tragic, and drastic. This collection greeted with the striking sentence ** "Long ago, if my memory serves, life was a feast where every heart was open, where every wine flowed." and who was I not to buy it when it moved me? Altogether, a solid collection which burned like hell and illuminated like fireflies dancing in the moonlight.
My takeaways from this book:
** "How I suffer, how I scream: I truly suffer. There's nothing I wouldn't contemplate doing now, burdened as I am with the contempt of the most contemptible of hearts." (p12)
** "I inhibited his heart as one might a palace: it was empty, precisely so no one would learn that a person as ignoble as you were there: and there it is. Alas! I needed him. But what did he want with me, drab and lifeless as I was? He didn’t make me a better person, and he didn’t manage to kill me! Sad, angry, I would occasionally say, ‘I understand you.’ He’d just shrug his shoulders." (p14)
** "I became opera: I saw that all living things were doomed, to bliss: that's not living; it's just a way to waste what we have, a drain. Morality is a weakness of mind." (p21)
** "One must be absolutely modern." (p28)
** "Even if I create all your memories — even if I know how to control you — I'll suffocate you." (p43)
** "Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity. What will become of the world when you leave? No matter what happens, no trace of now will remain." (p61)
** "Reality always too troublesome for my exalted character." (p75)
February 4, 2023
J’ai énormément aimé ce recueil mais je pense que j’aurais besoin de le relire. Le style de Rimbaud est parfois déconcertant mais il évoque des thèmes qui me parlent: le voyage, l’envie d’ailleurs… J’ai énormément aimé sa façon d’évoquer sa relation avec Verlaine, tout en métaphores, qui expriment sa douleur indicible.
October 10, 2009
What to say? It's Rimbaud, and on one hand I really enjoy reading this book, but on the other, I don't. At all. It may take me a few more of his books to find out whether I like him or not.
May 4, 2016
..vietām šī grāmata bija izcilības paraugdemonstrējums!
February 6, 2017
ARTH/UR RIMBAUD – LÉO FERRÉ – UNE SAISON EN ENFER – 1873-1991-2000
Ce texte est magique, ensorcelé, maudit, magnifique, pervers, exquis de délicatesse et de naïveté, envoûtant du pêché d’innocence et du crime de simplicité d’esprit. Il est un délire sans fin mais sans commencement non plus sur l’impossibilité dans laquelle Rimbaud se trouvait de simplement se poser dans une des boîtes cubiques qui sont sensées être l’habitat de chacun de nous dans une société moderne. Et qu’aurait-il souffert s’il avait connu les boîtes cubiques de nos temps modernes avec Internet, Netflix and Google intégrés et branchés directement sur nos cerveaux par WIFI mental expérimental et connecté pour toujours et irréversible ?
On me dira Rimbaud souffrait du syndrome d’Asperger, j’imagine, il avait du mal à établir des relations « norm-â-â-â-les » avec les autres. Mais il vit et voit cette incapacité avec les concepts et les yeux de ceux qui exigent qu’il se plie à ce rite initiatique. Il ne peut saisir son malheur qu’avec les concepts de ceux qui lui ont imposé ce malheur en premier lieu, ses parents qu’ils n’évoquent que métaphoriquement, surtout sa mère dit-on, les maîtres de ses écoles plus ou moins jésuites mais toujours casuistes, les prêtres qui ont probablement tous senti sa différence et une bonne proportion d’entre eux ont dû prendre avantage de cette différence.
Et qu’il ait réussi à garder son innocence pendant quelques temps importe peu. Il la perdit sur les barricades de la Commune de Paris et il s’ensevelit vivant dans la fange révolutionnaire et y trouva son plaisir, et y trouva Verlaine. Verlaine ne cherchait pas à compenser son syndrome d’Asperger, car lui n’était en rien autiste, simplement opportuniste et jouisseur. Il lui fallait sa brouettée de jeunes garçons pour passer la nuit aussi souvent que possible. On dirait aujourd’hui qu’il était pédophile et il les aimait autour de quatorze ans. Je ne peux ici citer les poèmes érotiques du dit Verlaine. Mais alors pourquoi donc Rimbaud fut élu pour plus d’une nuit, fut-il mis en concurrence avec l’épouse officielle de ce rat poétique qu’était Verlaine, put-il survivre presque trois ans dans ce ménage à trois qui avait tellement de petits et mignons lutins mâles que même le chat de Verlaine devait en perdre son miaulement latin.
Il réussit à survivre à cette ordalie autistique parce qu’il avait une imagination tellement plus forte que la moyenne. Il était un visionnaire Asperger, un visionnaire que le monde de Verlaine tentait de transformer en voyeur car en bon autiste mental et sensuel, sentimental et luxurieux sinon lubrique, comme la vipère qui devait l’effrayer comme une folie sybarite, aussitôt le plaisir atteint, la jouissance engrangé, il se retire, il se renferme, il se cloître et se replie comme si les papillons pouvaient redevenir des larves, renverser leur métamorphose en une apocalypse rétrograde qui défait tous les réseaux, qui tuent toutes les aventures, qui laissent la victime de son plaisir souffrir d’avoir effectivement atteint le plaisir, ce qui semble prouver qu’il n’est bon à rien car il a volé son propre plaisir à l’autre qui de toute façon n’en demande pas plus et se satisfait d’une aventure sans lendemain. Mais pour Rimbaud les lendemains de l’aventure déchantent toujours.
Alors il s’envole tel le papillon dont je viens de parler dans la noirceur de la nuit et il illumine un ciel sans étoiles des myriades de beauté colorée et fantastique qui deviennent les légions de sa souffrance. Il lance ses propres forces punitives contre lui-même et se fait le martyre de son désir d’innocence qu’il ne sait ressentir que quand il a rencontré le pêché du désir et le crime du désir satisfait. Cette situation est castratrice et il en devient femme par la perte de ce qui fait de lui un homme, sa capacité à fuir. Il devient une femme soumise, une femme que l’époux prend comme une chose qui lui est due, une femme qui ne trouve son plaisir que dans la soumission aux caprices de l’homme. Mais c’est justement la femme en lui qui peut le sauver, car la femme en lui rend à l’homme qu’il est le désir de vivre libre et le désir de se libérer de la souffrance de l’après.
Alors le voilà qu’il hante les champs de la beauté de Jason plantant les dents du dragon, mais il est incapable de combattre les guerriers qui en naissent. Alors il rejette la beauté dans la ciel divin ou dans l’enfer diabolique, les deux à la fois, comme les deux faces d’une même monnaie. Le Jésus, fils de l’homme qui est allé dans les limbes chercher les païens méritant d’être sauvés, le petit Jésus qui n’est autre que son outil de virilité, marche sur l’eau et se noie, tiré par les pieds par le Satan Luciférique et cadavérique qui ne veut qu’une chose dans ce monde : rôtir ses victimes au feu éternel de la culpabilité incontournable. Et le désir en revient et en devient plus fort et il se mue en ce moucheron enivré des vapeurs de la pissotière de l’hôtel, de cette tasse où il cherche à satisfaire son envie de jouissance sans la moindre attache. Les vespasiennes ne sont peut-être pas encore inventées mais tous les hôtels ont des pissotières largement ouvertes à ces jeunes gens et jeunes filles qui sont comme des distractions de voyageurs.
Mais ainsi de désir en satisfaction et de satisfaction en culpabilité il finit par perdre le sens du jour et de la nuit, par mourir dans son âme, perdre son âme, devenir une conche vide même du bruit de la mer. Il faut partir, mon ami, mon amant, se dit-il, et partir chez les fils de Cham pour y établir le commerce succulent et juteux des femmes pour européens blancs qui ne viennent en Afrique chercher que cela, la chair noire qu’ils peuvent ensuite rejeter comme si ce n’était qu’une caresse d’un chien ou main amie trouvée dans la lubricité d’un singe. Cela ne compte pas, n’est-il point ? Et son commerce d’esclaves que l’on dit généralement femmes, en oubliant qu’il y avait probablement autant d’hommes dans la horde concupiscente aux désirs lubriques des colonisateurs. La femme pour un épisode nocturne. L’homme pour un épisode diurne. Pourquoi cette peur de l’homme noir dans la nuit ? Personne ne sait répondre à cette question. Pourquoi la femme noire pour la nuit ? Là non plus personne ne sait répondre. Une vieille vision venue des temps les plus anciens. L’homme noir est une bête qu’on peut exploiter tout le jour durant. La femme noire est une autre bête qu’on peut exploiter toute la nuit durant quand on ne voit plus qu’elle est noire. Il faut être absolument moderne dit-il.
Et ce fut bien là son malheur. Il revint d’Ethiopie avec la maladie honteuse que l’on sait pour mourir quasiment sur le quai de Marseille. Il abusa plus que nécessaire de ces chairs noires pour satisfaire son désir de plaisir et ensuite oublier sa frustration castratrice de l’après.
Etre un tel Asperger poétique est une calamité dans le monde moderne et il n’y a pour ces personnes que le plaisir de mourir le plus vite possible pour être enfin en rapport avec soi-même, posséder comme il le dit dans son dernier souffle, enfin, « la vérité dans une âme et un corps », les deux unis dans la mort qui enfin satisfait sa soif et sa faim d’une satiété éternelle.
Alors qu’en fait Léo Ferré ?
Il transforme ce long poème en une plainte, un cantique, une mélopée mortuaire qui se traine dans quelque caverne mentale où résonne le glas de cette mort régressive qu’est la fuite d’Arthur Rimbaud au pays des enfants de Cham. Honte à toi Verlaine qui a utilisé ce jeune poète comme s’il était un crachoir au bar de l’hôtel où tu l’as réduit à n’être qu’un moucheron à la pissotière du dit hôtel où il disparaît dans le premier rayon de soleil. Et le monde nous prit un des plus grands poètes de notre temps qui ne vécut que si peu d’années qu’il n’eut guère le temps que de passer de larve à trépas sans jamais pouvoir déployer ses ailes. C’est dur d’être un autiste Asperger, et ils ne sont pas tous des Einstein même si tous le mériteraient. Mais la société ne saurait autoriser ces êtres mal polis et mal policés de s’immiscer dans les affaires sérieuses de la nation, ou de la religion d’ailleurs, car entre la nation et la religion il n’y a qu’un pas d’enfant de chœur. « La vie est la farce à mener par tous ! » et dès que tous sont l’objet de quoi que ce soit cela devient une farce parfois tragique, que ce soit un mariage pour tous ou une manif pour tous.
On voit ce qui attirait Léo Ferré, cet anarchiste mental et poétique dans ce texte qui ne fut enfin redécouvert que dans les deux fils d’André Breton le republièrent dans leur revue Poésie 1, n° 4, 1969, aux Editions de Saint Germain des Prés. Et le passage que Léo Ferré répète trois fois fait ainsi se joindre la sagesse sixtine de Salomon, « cris, tambours, danse, danse, danse, danse » à la sagesse évangélique de la semaine sainte et septime de l’escrime, « Faim, soif, cris, danse, danse, danse, danse ! »
Dr Jacques COULARDEAU
Ce texte est magique, ensorcelé, maudit, magnifique, pervers, exquis de délicatesse et de naïveté, envoûtant du pêché d’innocence et du crime de simplicité d’esprit. Il est un délire sans fin mais sans commencement non plus sur l’impossibilité dans laquelle Rimbaud se trouvait de simplement se poser dans une des boîtes cubiques qui sont sensées être l’habitat de chacun de nous dans une société moderne. Et qu’aurait-il souffert s’il avait connu les boîtes cubiques de nos temps modernes avec Internet, Netflix and Google intégrés et branchés directement sur nos cerveaux par WIFI mental expérimental et connecté pour toujours et irréversible ?
On me dira Rimbaud souffrait du syndrome d’Asperger, j’imagine, il avait du mal à établir des relations « norm-â-â-â-les » avec les autres. Mais il vit et voit cette incapacité avec les concepts et les yeux de ceux qui exigent qu’il se plie à ce rite initiatique. Il ne peut saisir son malheur qu’avec les concepts de ceux qui lui ont imposé ce malheur en premier lieu, ses parents qu’ils n’évoquent que métaphoriquement, surtout sa mère dit-on, les maîtres de ses écoles plus ou moins jésuites mais toujours casuistes, les prêtres qui ont probablement tous senti sa différence et une bonne proportion d’entre eux ont dû prendre avantage de cette différence.
Et qu’il ait réussi à garder son innocence pendant quelques temps importe peu. Il la perdit sur les barricades de la Commune de Paris et il s’ensevelit vivant dans la fange révolutionnaire et y trouva son plaisir, et y trouva Verlaine. Verlaine ne cherchait pas à compenser son syndrome d’Asperger, car lui n’était en rien autiste, simplement opportuniste et jouisseur. Il lui fallait sa brouettée de jeunes garçons pour passer la nuit aussi souvent que possible. On dirait aujourd’hui qu’il était pédophile et il les aimait autour de quatorze ans. Je ne peux ici citer les poèmes érotiques du dit Verlaine. Mais alors pourquoi donc Rimbaud fut élu pour plus d’une nuit, fut-il mis en concurrence avec l’épouse officielle de ce rat poétique qu’était Verlaine, put-il survivre presque trois ans dans ce ménage à trois qui avait tellement de petits et mignons lutins mâles que même le chat de Verlaine devait en perdre son miaulement latin.
Il réussit à survivre à cette ordalie autistique parce qu’il avait une imagination tellement plus forte que la moyenne. Il était un visionnaire Asperger, un visionnaire que le monde de Verlaine tentait de transformer en voyeur car en bon autiste mental et sensuel, sentimental et luxurieux sinon lubrique, comme la vipère qui devait l’effrayer comme une folie sybarite, aussitôt le plaisir atteint, la jouissance engrangé, il se retire, il se renferme, il se cloître et se replie comme si les papillons pouvaient redevenir des larves, renverser leur métamorphose en une apocalypse rétrograde qui défait tous les réseaux, qui tuent toutes les aventures, qui laissent la victime de son plaisir souffrir d’avoir effectivement atteint le plaisir, ce qui semble prouver qu’il n’est bon à rien car il a volé son propre plaisir à l’autre qui de toute façon n’en demande pas plus et se satisfait d’une aventure sans lendemain. Mais pour Rimbaud les lendemains de l’aventure déchantent toujours.
Alors il s’envole tel le papillon dont je viens de parler dans la noirceur de la nuit et il illumine un ciel sans étoiles des myriades de beauté colorée et fantastique qui deviennent les légions de sa souffrance. Il lance ses propres forces punitives contre lui-même et se fait le martyre de son désir d’innocence qu’il ne sait ressentir que quand il a rencontré le pêché du désir et le crime du désir satisfait. Cette situation est castratrice et il en devient femme par la perte de ce qui fait de lui un homme, sa capacité à fuir. Il devient une femme soumise, une femme que l’époux prend comme une chose qui lui est due, une femme qui ne trouve son plaisir que dans la soumission aux caprices de l’homme. Mais c’est justement la femme en lui qui peut le sauver, car la femme en lui rend à l’homme qu’il est le désir de vivre libre et le désir de se libérer de la souffrance de l’après.
Alors le voilà qu’il hante les champs de la beauté de Jason plantant les dents du dragon, mais il est incapable de combattre les guerriers qui en naissent. Alors il rejette la beauté dans la ciel divin ou dans l’enfer diabolique, les deux à la fois, comme les deux faces d’une même monnaie. Le Jésus, fils de l’homme qui est allé dans les limbes chercher les païens méritant d’être sauvés, le petit Jésus qui n’est autre que son outil de virilité, marche sur l’eau et se noie, tiré par les pieds par le Satan Luciférique et cadavérique qui ne veut qu’une chose dans ce monde : rôtir ses victimes au feu éternel de la culpabilité incontournable. Et le désir en revient et en devient plus fort et il se mue en ce moucheron enivré des vapeurs de la pissotière de l’hôtel, de cette tasse où il cherche à satisfaire son envie de jouissance sans la moindre attache. Les vespasiennes ne sont peut-être pas encore inventées mais tous les hôtels ont des pissotières largement ouvertes à ces jeunes gens et jeunes filles qui sont comme des distractions de voyageurs.
Mais ainsi de désir en satisfaction et de satisfaction en culpabilité il finit par perdre le sens du jour et de la nuit, par mourir dans son âme, perdre son âme, devenir une conche vide même du bruit de la mer. Il faut partir, mon ami, mon amant, se dit-il, et partir chez les fils de Cham pour y établir le commerce succulent et juteux des femmes pour européens blancs qui ne viennent en Afrique chercher que cela, la chair noire qu’ils peuvent ensuite rejeter comme si ce n’était qu’une caresse d’un chien ou main amie trouvée dans la lubricité d’un singe. Cela ne compte pas, n’est-il point ? Et son commerce d’esclaves que l’on dit généralement femmes, en oubliant qu’il y avait probablement autant d’hommes dans la horde concupiscente aux désirs lubriques des colonisateurs. La femme pour un épisode nocturne. L’homme pour un épisode diurne. Pourquoi cette peur de l’homme noir dans la nuit ? Personne ne sait répondre à cette question. Pourquoi la femme noire pour la nuit ? Là non plus personne ne sait répondre. Une vieille vision venue des temps les plus anciens. L’homme noir est une bête qu’on peut exploiter tout le jour durant. La femme noire est une autre bête qu’on peut exploiter toute la nuit durant quand on ne voit plus qu’elle est noire. Il faut être absolument moderne dit-il.
Et ce fut bien là son malheur. Il revint d’Ethiopie avec la maladie honteuse que l’on sait pour mourir quasiment sur le quai de Marseille. Il abusa plus que nécessaire de ces chairs noires pour satisfaire son désir de plaisir et ensuite oublier sa frustration castratrice de l’après.
Etre un tel Asperger poétique est une calamité dans le monde moderne et il n’y a pour ces personnes que le plaisir de mourir le plus vite possible pour être enfin en rapport avec soi-même, posséder comme il le dit dans son dernier souffle, enfin, « la vérité dans une âme et un corps », les deux unis dans la mort qui enfin satisfait sa soif et sa faim d’une satiété éternelle.
Alors qu’en fait Léo Ferré ?
Il transforme ce long poème en une plainte, un cantique, une mélopée mortuaire qui se traine dans quelque caverne mentale où résonne le glas de cette mort régressive qu’est la fuite d’Arthur Rimbaud au pays des enfants de Cham. Honte à toi Verlaine qui a utilisé ce jeune poète comme s’il était un crachoir au bar de l’hôtel où tu l’as réduit à n’être qu’un moucheron à la pissotière du dit hôtel où il disparaît dans le premier rayon de soleil. Et le monde nous prit un des plus grands poètes de notre temps qui ne vécut que si peu d’années qu’il n’eut guère le temps que de passer de larve à trépas sans jamais pouvoir déployer ses ailes. C’est dur d’être un autiste Asperger, et ils ne sont pas tous des Einstein même si tous le mériteraient. Mais la société ne saurait autoriser ces êtres mal polis et mal policés de s’immiscer dans les affaires sérieuses de la nation, ou de la religion d’ailleurs, car entre la nation et la religion il n’y a qu’un pas d’enfant de chœur. « La vie est la farce à mener par tous ! » et dès que tous sont l’objet de quoi que ce soit cela devient une farce parfois tragique, que ce soit un mariage pour tous ou une manif pour tous.
On voit ce qui attirait Léo Ferré, cet anarchiste mental et poétique dans ce texte qui ne fut enfin redécouvert que dans les deux fils d’André Breton le republièrent dans leur revue Poésie 1, n° 4, 1969, aux Editions de Saint Germain des Prés. Et le passage que Léo Ferré répète trois fois fait ainsi se joindre la sagesse sixtine de Salomon, « cris, tambours, danse, danse, danse, danse » à la sagesse évangélique de la semaine sainte et septime de l’escrime, « Faim, soif, cris, danse, danse, danse, danse ! »
Dr Jacques COULARDEAU
May 8, 2019
I had seen Rimbaud mentioned in a poem by Bukowski and decided to give him a try. I found him incredibly difficult to read, but when I looked at the French with my wee smattering of memory I have of studying it school, I saw that it just didn’t match up. I’d be reading and think to myself that the chose of words was off or wrong. I’d look at the French and wouldn’t recognize the translation. So when the translator translated side by side several versions you could see his deviations! The translator took poetic liberties writing his own words as if to make Rimbaud more poetic! I cannot fairly judge the writing of Rimbaud because I don’t have the time or energy to sit down with a French dictionary and translate him myself!
I looked at his four versions of how he translates the poems and you can see that the words are not the same. He starts writing his own words and not how Rimbaud wrote it which seems like paraphrasing not translating. This explained a lot of why it was difficult reading for me. It might be fine for others but reminds me when my French tutor had me translate a poem about a rooster and I took the thesaurus and found other synonyms instead of an exact translation. This ticked her off and now I completely understand why.
Rimbaud was a brat and party boy, but sought out poets to learn from and study with. He started writing in his early teens which is even more impressive. The first book is mellow dramatic poetry and about his suffering and love affairs and we all know that first love can be brutal. The second book Illuminations is more an enlightened look at the place he is going and what he’s seeing and would have had a lot more enjoyable if I could have read his words and now the translator getting flowery. I was going to give this two stars in deference to long dead Rimbaud, but after the life he led I think he will understand.
I looked at his four versions of how he translates the poems and you can see that the words are not the same. He starts writing his own words and not how Rimbaud wrote it which seems like paraphrasing not translating. This explained a lot of why it was difficult reading for me. It might be fine for others but reminds me when my French tutor had me translate a poem about a rooster and I took the thesaurus and found other synonyms instead of an exact translation. This ticked her off and now I completely understand why.
Rimbaud was a brat and party boy, but sought out poets to learn from and study with. He started writing in his early teens which is even more impressive. The first book is mellow dramatic poetry and about his suffering and love affairs and we all know that first love can be brutal. The second book Illuminations is more an enlightened look at the place he is going and what he’s seeing and would have had a lot more enjoyable if I could have read his words and now the translator getting flowery. I was going to give this two stars in deference to long dead Rimbaud, but after the life he led I think he will understand.
October 27, 2021
Ko nozīmē izlasīju? Reiz sen lasīju, lasīju. Tagad pēkšņi atvēru un sapratu. Beigusi baidīties no nesaprašanas un aizrauties ar nepieciešamību pēc paskaidrojumiem, es sajutu un, sajutusi, es sapratu.
“Tagad es ļauju sev kļūt par salašņu, cik vien iespējams. Kādēļ? Es gribu būt dzejnieks, un strādāju pie tā, lai kļūtu Redzīgs: jūs nenieka nesapratīsiet, un diez vai es spētu paskaidrot. Runa ir par nonāksanu pie nezināmā, radot traucējumus visās maņās. Ciešanas ir milzīgas; bet jābūt stipram, jābūt dzimušam dzejniekam, un es esmu sevī atpazinis dzejnieku. Tā it nemaz nav mana vaina. Ir aplami sacīt: es domāju; būtu jāsaka: mani domā. — Atvainojiet par vārdu spēli. ES ir cits.” (215-16)
Reiz es izglītības (ko toreiz nemācēju novērtēt, bet tam jau der tagadne) ietvaros rakstīju pati savu Dekārta meditāciju, un tur caur mani kā strūklaku plūda domas. No kurienes? Ne jau NO manis. Mani domāja! Manī domāja! Un turpina domāt. Ja es necīnos par kontroles ilūzijām, tad es varu redzēt tā, ka tuvojos Redzīgumam. Ļauju notikt tam ES, kam jānotiek. Atpazīstu sevi sevī. Lielais jautājums: vai valoda ir plīvurs vai atslēga? Kāda gan cita atbilde, ja ne — abi.
“Tagad es ļauju sev kļūt par salašņu, cik vien iespējams. Kādēļ? Es gribu būt dzejnieks, un strādāju pie tā, lai kļūtu Redzīgs: jūs nenieka nesapratīsiet, un diez vai es spētu paskaidrot. Runa ir par nonāksanu pie nezināmā, radot traucējumus visās maņās. Ciešanas ir milzīgas; bet jābūt stipram, jābūt dzimušam dzejniekam, un es esmu sevī atpazinis dzejnieku. Tā it nemaz nav mana vaina. Ir aplami sacīt: es domāju; būtu jāsaka: mani domā. — Atvainojiet par vārdu spēli. ES ir cits.” (215-16)
Reiz es izglītības (ko toreiz nemācēju novērtēt, bet tam jau der tagadne) ietvaros rakstīju pati savu Dekārta meditāciju, un tur caur mani kā strūklaku plūda domas. No kurienes? Ne jau NO manis. Mani domāja! Manī domāja! Un turpina domāt. Ja es necīnos par kontroles ilūzijām, tad es varu redzēt tā, ka tuvojos Redzīgumam. Ļauju notikt tam ES, kam jānotiek. Atpazīstu sevi sevī. Lielais jautājums: vai valoda ir plīvurs vai atslēga? Kāda gan cita atbilde, ja ne — abi.
April 21, 2024
"A última inocência e a última timidez. Está dito. Não deixarei ao mundo a história da minha náusea e das minhas traições. Vamos! A marcha, o fardo, o deserto, a cólera e o tédio. A quem devotar-me? A que animal é preciso adorar? Que imagem santa atacam? Que corações terei de esmagar? Que mentira devo defender? - Através de que sangue tenho de passar?"
- Mau Sangue
""Olha esse que vai ao Inferno e volta quando lhe apetece". De Rimbaud poderia dizer-se que, tentando escapar ao inferno teológico, fechou sobre si as portas do inferno na terra. "Escrutei o inferno com muita atenção e pareceu-me notável coisa. Disse-me a Morte: que olhas? Olho respondi - o inferno. E parece-me que já vira antes.""
"Nous pouvons bien avoir la même âme, puisque nous avons le même sang" Isabel Rimbaud
Do prefácio por Mário Cesariny
- Mau Sangue
""Olha esse que vai ao Inferno e volta quando lhe apetece". De Rimbaud poderia dizer-se que, tentando escapar ao inferno teológico, fechou sobre si as portas do inferno na terra. "Escrutei o inferno com muita atenção e pareceu-me notável coisa. Disse-me a Morte: que olhas? Olho respondi - o inferno. E parece-me que já vira antes.""
"Nous pouvons bien avoir la même âme, puisque nous avons le même sang" Isabel Rimbaud
Do prefácio por Mário Cesariny
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