Arthur Rimbaud is probably one of the most fascinating people, to me, of all time. Everything about his life intrigues me, and his relationship with Paul Verlaine was both a thing of beauty and a treacherous, unhealthy addiction that neither of them could seem to break. I feel connected to Rimbaud through that typical, sad isolation; the kind only met when someone is too much like who they are idolizing but probably too unbelievable for anyone else to take notice.

Singlehandedly, Rimbaud pretty much created the idea of self-contradiction as he weaved himself a reputation that he slowly grew to detest and, eventually, deny. Instead of being recognized for his work, Rimbaud was plagued by the gossip of his personal life. It wasn’t until he was dead that the literary world gave him a second chance. And, without a doubt, his poetry is beautiful. It’s beautiful because it constantly changes. At one moment he can be perverse and sardonic, until, a line later, he can capture our emotions with easy effort. Rimbaud was truly astonishing, which is why I admire his work, his persona and his life.

Reading through Edmund White’s biography was insightful, and I appreciated the time White took to debunk the misinformation that has been spread about Rimbaud. He offered a great outlook on the more mysterious aspects of Rimbaud’s life while never becoming bias. There’s a reasonable amount of biographies about Rimbaud, though many of them are only in French, which is why I’m very pleased with White’s fluid, English presentation. I am especially looking forward to revisiting Rimbaud’s poetry with this biography in mind.

Rimbaud is just someone I’ll always admire and respect. His jealousy, his contempt and bitterness for most things that did not involve himself—oh, he was a child in many aspects, yet beneath that exterior dwelled a genius, and it’s amazing his work still reads so loudly today.