Read A Season in Hell & Illuminations by Arthur Rimbaud Wyatt Mason Online

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“The definitive translation for our time.”–Edward HirschFrom 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 hav“The definitive translation for our time.”–Edward HirschFrom 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. With A Season in Hell, they cement Rimbaud’s reputation as one of the foremost, and most influential, writers in French literature....

Title : A Season in Hell & Illuminations
Author :
Rating :
ISBN : 9780679643272
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 240 Pages
Status : Available For Download
Last checked : 21 Minutes ago!

A Season in Hell & Illuminations Reviews

  • Kate
    2019-03-21 14:19

    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.

  • Teresa Proença
    2019-03-30 18:24

    "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:"REALEZAUma 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."

  • M.L. Rio
    2019-04-14 19:30

    Rimbaud is a regular autumn read for me, and every time I find another captivating detail I somehow overlooked before.

  • ilknur a.k.a. iko ◬
    2019-03-31 17:34

    .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."xoxoikoBir 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.

  • Hilary
    2019-04-18 16:29

    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.

  • Simon Robs
    2019-04-14 13:32

    Sheer poetical madness no outcome. Better if could read French I'll bet.

  • Ben
    2019-03-26 14:32

    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.

  • Antonomasia
    2019-04-08 15:47

    A Season in Hell & Illuminations, transl. Wyatt MasonHaving 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.

  • Andy
    2019-03-25 16:18

    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.

  • Jeff Jackson
    2019-03-26 19:36

    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.

  • Vilém Zouhar
    2019-03-26 17:19

    Many of you might find this book depressing or even pessimistic. But I think of it rather as a celebration of life.After reading the first two sentences I realised I need to know something about Rimbaud himself first. The book seems like the manifestation of his whole life. If you're about to read this book, read something about Rimbaud first too (one wikipedia article is sufficent).I came to this book because of Kudera's books, where there are several references to Rimbaud and the whole Kundera's philosophy is based on one line from this book: "It is necessary to be absolutely modern."If I had to choose my favourite poem from this book, it's definietly Farewell from A Season in Hell (I didn't like Illuminations that much).

  • Ty
    2019-03-29 14:24

    "i hate this." i accidentally saw a death metal band live one time and that's what the singer kept screaming into the mic (as the other band members threw beers and ripped-up bible pages at the audience). but really, i hate this. i don't get these poems or whatever. illuminations contains surreal scenes that just fly over me and paint nothing for me. a season in hell was OK though. only very rarely did this collection click with me.

  • Jessica
    2019-04-15 19:47

    poets 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.

  • Autumn
    2019-03-29 16:37

    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.

  • Sofie
    2019-04-13 16:25

    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.

  • Agris Fakingsons
    2019-04-05 16:23

    ..vietām šī grāmata bija izcilības paraugdemonstrējums!

  • Abailart
    2019-04-09 11:31

    This is the Mark Taharne translation; in his introduction he spells out the enormous difficulties involved with translating and interpreting the poetry, and advises readers to look at as many translations as possible. I got this off the shelf yesterday to coincide with the BBC Radio 3 production in its series 'Between the Ears'. The latter is a marvellous ongoing immersion in 'soundscapes', music, song and spoken word. The R3 site and its blog say of this production:An abridged radio reworking of Rimbaud's intense masterpiece of spiritual disillusionment, narrated by Carl Prekopp with a soundscape by Bristol composer Elizabeth Purnell and poems sung by Robert Wyatt.A Season in Hell was written between April and August 1873 in London and France, when Rimbaud was 18, and in the throes of an intense, transgressive and destructive relationship with Verlaine. It is regarded as one of the most remarkable pieces of prose poetry ever written - a mixture of autobiography and enigmatic dream sequence in which Rimbaud looks back in despair over his life as a poet. Combining lucid self-appraisal with demented vision, it moves between hyper-realism and hallucinatory surrealism, blending sounds, colours, odours and intensely visual images. The 25 pages of A Season in Hell, here cut to a third of its length, are seen as both a testimony to and a tortured recantation of Rimbaud's poetic credo, the 'disordering of all the senses'.Elizabeth Purnell's soundtrack for the work includes composed music, field recordings and processed sound in a raw response to the words; she set the poems specifically for Wyatt, whose voice in its high, delicate register suggests a beyond-the-grave alter-ego to the young Rimbaud.From Between the Ears BlogA Season in Hell is an abridged radio reworking of French poet Arthur Rimbaud's intense masterpiece of spiritual disillusionment, narrated by Carl Prekopp with a soundscape by Bristol composer Elizabeth Purnell and poems sung by Robert Wyatt. The programme will be broadcast in Between the Ears on Saturday 14 November at 9.45pm. Here, producer Sara Davies gives a fascinating account of the journey from the idea of turning the work into radio, through various artistic twists and turns, to the version listeners will hear on Saturday. About thirty years ago I was in a bar in a small Mexican town where a French actor gave a thoroughly eccentric performance of some of Rimbaud's poetry to a musical accompaniment. He didn't include the prose poem A Season in Hell, probably because it defied even his eccentricity and powers of performance. Later, it seemed to me that radio was the ideal place to try to find expression for its insistent, wild, knowing autobiographical voice and emotional complexity.elizabeth_purnell.gifI asked the composer Elizabeth (Liz) Purnell to read it, and she leapt at the chance to respond to such an extraordinary piece of writing. I knew I'd have to make fierce cuts to fit it into half an hour, and had imagined I'd drop the songs which appear about two thirds of the way through the piece, as they seemed to me to be the most problematic elements in a pretty knotty piece of writing.But when we talked about it, Liz argued convincingly for at least some of them to be left in, and I realised when she talked about wanting to set them for Robert Wyatt that she was absolutely right. We decided on the three we both felt would work best, based on instinct rather than any literary judgement; literary judgements about the poem itself are so disparate and interpretations so varied that it was liberating not to have any orthodoxy to follow. Liz says she wanted the songs to suggest a kind of alter-ego Rimbaud, speaking from beyond the grave, and that she asked Wyatt to sing them because of his sense of spontaneity, his interest in poetry and the wonderful delicate nature of his voice in the high register.Robert_Wyatt.jpgShe went to record them at his house in Lincolnshire, where she set up a microphone in his front room, ignored the background roar of passing lorries and played him the backing track on her laptop as he sang. Robert was keen to sing the songs mainly in the original French - something I hadn't envisaged, but was charmed when Liz brought the recordings back. Liz knew she was pushing him to the top of his register, but he went for it, and with lots of fag breaks and cups of tea, they got the recordings done over an afternoon and the following morning. One of the most enjoyable recording sessions she's ever done, she says - and not a lorry to be heard in the background.Contains language that might cause offence.

  • Jacques Coulardeau
    2019-04-09 12:39

    ARTH/UR RIMBAUD – LÉO FERRÉ – UNE SAISON EN ENFER – 1873-1991-2000Ce 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

  • Ian Drew Forsyth
    2019-04-11 15:21

    A Season in Hell quotes:it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.I despise all trades. Foreman and workmen--all of them, peasants, riff-raff. The hand that writes is as good as the hand that ploughs.--What a century of hands!--I'll never own my own hand. Next, domesticity goes too far. The honesty of begging sickens me. Criminals are as disgusting as castrati. Myself, I'm intact, and I don't give a damn.the gospel's passe!I wait for God with gluttony. I belong to an inferior race throughout eternity.Life's the joke each of us keeps on playing.I think I'm in hell, therefore I am.I'm going to unveil all the mysteries: religious mysteries or natural, death, birth, future, past, cosmogony, nothingness. I'm a master of hallucinations.Oh! the life of adventure that's found in children's books, will you give it to me to reward me for all the things I've suffered?a living room at the bottom of a lakevaudeville show sophistriesthe hallucination of words!I ended up viewing the disorder of my mind as sacred. I envied the happiness of animals--the caterpillars that represent the innocence of limbo--the moles, the sleep of virginity!And we'll go on enjoying ourselves, dreaming up monstrous loves and fantastic universes, gripping and criticizing the world's disguises--acrobat, beggar, artist, outlaw--priest!I've tried to invent new flowers, new stars, new flesh, new tongues. I thought I'd acquired supernatural powers. Oh well! my imagination and my memories must be buried!Spiritual combat's as brutal as battling with people, (but the vision of justice is the pleasure of god alone.)Didn't find this translation of Illuminations impressive, John Ashberry's is superior

  • Rebecca
    2019-04-15 16:41

    Season in Hell is a poem published in 1873. I first heard of this book from Eddie and the Cruisers movie. I have been wanting to read this book for about 20 years. This is a work of genius about dealing with change and dealing with being very different in the century where change is difficult. The most remarkable part of this book is that we are still dealing the same issues today, mental health and homosexuality and a society on the cusp on change. Change is hard to deal with and in his words, the key is charity. This talks about the changing of old wives tales to science and how science is winning. The Western mode of thinking is too narrow for some people and the eastern methods work better. This goes beyond religion and goes to the nature of God. This poem is fairly short and can be read in one day but will keep you thinking for weeks about the social implictions of the book. For anyone who wants to read some beautiful prose that still matters today. A season in hell is one of those books that shows the artistry of being different, questioning both Catholicisim and religion in general for being too restrictive. Charity and forgiveness are what the world needs, not judgement of being different. Insane asylums were reserved for the different all the way into the 20th century. This is a beautiful poem with striking implications in todays world.

  • Mr.
    2019-03-22 15:45

    Rimbaud skillfully draws the reader into the world of damnation, the world of the self. He confronts the essence of nihilism and self-loathing in this remarkable poem, composed at the astonishing age of 19. Like Dante, Milton, and perhaps Pound, Rimbaud is able to bend the language to engage the reader in a transcendental understanding of the human condition and psyche. There are poems in here of promethean beauty that prefigure the rebellious spirit of French artistic bohemians in the dawn of the 20th century: "Long ago, if my memory serves, life was a feast where every heart was open, where every wined flowed. One night, I sat Beauty on my knee.-And I found her bitter.-And I hurt her. I took arms against justice. I fled, entrusting my treasure to you, o witches, o misery, o hate. I snuffled any hint of human hope from my consciousness. I made the muffled leap of a wild beast into any hint of joy, to strangle it. (3). This is an altogether excellent edition of Season and Hell and Illuminations, with a lucid and stark translation by Wyatt Mason. The Modern English library has also included the original French text, complete with a chronology of the poet's life and comprehensive facsimiles of the original texts for true bookworms who want to look at Rimbaud's corrections.

  • Feliks
    2019-04-11 18:31

    Along with prose author Louis-Ferdinand Celine (the astounding hypocrite) and Cervantes (talented but misguided oaf) Arthur Rimbaud is one of the few classic authors I strenuously avoid. I shun him, his work, and his reputation. I will allow only that he had precocious, ahead-of-his-years skill in constructing poems; but not that he has any particular message or set of ideas worth attending upon.Why? Because practically no 18 yr old boy has anything relevant to say to me about anything. I don't care how good a poet he is, whats does he know about hardship or struggle? Let him first, live. Let him first be a man (a heterosexual man). Let him first love, care for, and provide for a woman, home, and family. Or let him fight for his country or against his country (either). Blood, sweat, or tears! Let him work all his days only to see all his efforts, goals, hopes, and yearnings fail and come to naught! Then let him come to me and tell me about life. Otherwise--to me--he is still wet-behind-the-ears, a green kid, a tyke, a brat, and an infant. Having a homosexual fling with friend and fellow poet Verlaine, doesn't recommend him to me whatsoever as a man of experience. As far as I'm concerned he is a virgin; and I don't listen to virgins for life-wisdom.

  • Joakim Paz
    2019-04-12 14:37

    Nada de cânticos: manter a posição conquistada. Noite de pedra! osangue seco suja-me o rosto, e não posso contar com coisa algumaatrás de mim, a não ser este horrível arbusto!... O combate espiritualé tão brutal quanto a batalha dos homens; mas a visão da justiça éunicamente o prazer de Deus.Entretanto, é chegada a véspera. Recebamos todos os influxos dovigor e da ternura verdadeira. E, à aurora, revestidos de ardentepaciência, entraremos as esplêndidas cidades.Que dizia eu de mão amiga! Já é imensa vantagem poder sorrir dosvelhos amores mentirosos e envergonhar essas duplas deembusteiros - vi lá longe o inferno das mulheres; - e ser-me-á dadopossuir a verdade numa alma e num só corpo

  • Alfonso
    2019-04-02 19:43

    If someone told me this was the greatest work of literature anyone had ever created, I wouldn't necessarily disagree. Rimbaud's style, not quite poetry and certainly not prose, took the writing world by storm and changed it forever. His work has gone on to influence everyone from Joyce to the Beats to John Lennon. Dark, tortured, tragic, magnificent, and solely unique and original even after a hundred years. It'd be difficult to think of someone more influential than Rimbaud and the short but incredible body of work enclosed in this book.

  • Tom Lee
    2019-03-26 16:27

    Oh, Rimbaud! The lunatic, romantic side of me was screaming, yes, yes! Tell me more about those flies drunk on piss at a country inn, how morality is a weakness of the brain, how you became a fabulous opera! Speak to me of the dark heaven of love where we are left poor, deaf, dumb and blind for our pains; of how life corrodes us and leaves our hair and armpits crawling with worms.The rest of me wanted to quote Melvin Udall from As Good As It Gets: “Go sell crazy someplace else, we’re all stocked up here!’

  • Jessica
    2019-04-12 15:41

    Let's say I'm not in the proper frame of mind to read this kind of work and actually relate to it emotionally. I get how much he was suffering (and how completely stoned he was when he wrote it) but it didn't move me much and that's one of the things I value the most about poetry so... Maybe it was the translation. Maybe if I knew enough French to read it in its original version.... Nah, maybe not even then.

  • Sam
    2019-04-17 16:34

    The most passionate collection of poetry I've ever read. At times hateful, raging, self-deprecating, pitiful, and serene. The only English translation worth reading is the one by Bertrand Mathieu. This is simply the two greatest books of French poetry collected into one. He speaks like a prophet condemning himself to hell. His prose poetry is striking, has beautiful cadence, powerful imagery, and is delivered with tremendous ferocity.

  • Michael
    2019-04-13 13:44

    Such youthful passion and extreme feelings. This is forever the work of youth and wild abandon. Never read anything by Rimbaud until A Season Of Hell and was bowled over by the words...such beautiful, elegant, and fiery words! Have reread this twice and can really see what all the fuss is about for Rimbaud.

  • StrangeBedfellows
    2019-04-17 15:31

    ��If I had to name a favorite poet, it would probably be Arthur Rimbaud. His work is rich with imagery and meaning, each poem holding an entire story. Even better is the way this collection works as a whole, reading like an epic saga. It's a rare thing when I enjoy sitting down to read poetry, but I would happily return to this book time and again.

  • Barry
    2019-03-26 15:41

    Rimbaud wrote all his poems by the age of 21. the depth of insight and creativity from such a young man are humbling. one wonders if he had any more to say and couldn't express it or if whatever drove his literary aspirations was dissipated by his twenties.