[b]Arthur Rimbaud
Whose hearts must I break?
What lies must I maintain?
Through whose blood am I to wade?[/b]
On the other hand, it’s only from the cradle to the grave.
The wolf howled under the leaves
And spit out the prettiest feathers
Of his meal of fowl:
Like him I consume myself.
Tell him that.
Now I am an outcast. I loathe my country. The best thing for me is a drunken sleep on the beach.
Unless of course you have access to heroin.
True life is elsewhere
Until you arrive and it’s not even there.
The first study for the man who wants to be a poet is knowledge of himself, complete: he searches for his soul, he inspects it, he puts it to the test, he learns it. As soon as he has learned it, he must cultivate it! I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences. Ineffable torture where he needs all his faith, all his superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed one–and the supreme Scholar! For he reaches the unknown! …So the poet is actually a thief of Fire!
I’ll think about it, okay?
Morality is the weakness of the mind.
He means in this world.