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Rimbaud: Complete Works, Selected Letters
The enfant terrible of French letters, Jean-Nicholas-Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91) was a defiant and precocious youth who wrote some of the most remarkable prose and poetry of the nineteenth century, all before leaving the world of verse by the age of twenty-one. More than a century after his death, the young rebel-poet continues to appeal to modern readers as much for his turbulent life as for his poetry; his stormy affair with fellow poet Paul Verlaine and his nomadic adventures in eastern Africa are as iconic as his hallucinatory poems and symbolist prose.
The first translation of the poet's complete works when it was published in 1966, Rimbaud: Complete Works, Selected Letters introduced a new generation of Americans to the alienated genius—among them the Doors's lead singer Jim Morrison, who wrote to translator Wallace Fowlie to thank him for rendering the poems accessible to those who "don't read French that easily." Forty years later, the book remains the only side-by-side bilingual edition of Rimbaud's complete poetic works.
Thoroughly revising Fowlie's edition, Seth Whidden has made changes on virtually every page, correcting errors, reordering poems, adding previously omitted versions of poems and some letters, and updating the text to reflect current scholarship; left in place are Fowlie's literal and respectful translations of Rimbaud's complex and nontraditional verse. Whidden also provides a foreword that considers the heritage of Fowlie's edition and adds a bibliography that acknowledges relevant books that have appeared since the original publication. On its fortieth anniversary, Rimbaud remains the most authoritative—and now, completely up-to-date—edition of the young master's entire poetic ouvre.
The first translation of the poet's complete works when it was published in 1966, Rimbaud: Complete Works, Selected Letters introduced a new generation of Americans to the alienated genius—among them the Doors's lead singer Jim Morrison, who wrote to translator Wallace Fowlie to thank him for rendering the poems accessible to those who "don't read French that easily." Forty years later, the book remains the only side-by-side bilingual edition of Rimbaud's complete poetic works.
Thoroughly revising Fowlie's edition, Seth Whidden has made changes on virtually every page, correcting errors, reordering poems, adding previously omitted versions of poems and some letters, and updating the text to reflect current scholarship; left in place are Fowlie's literal and respectful translations of Rimbaud's complex and nontraditional verse. Whidden also provides a foreword that considers the heritage of Fowlie's edition and adds a bibliography that acknowledges relevant books that have appeared since the original publication. On its fortieth anniversary, Rimbaud remains the most authoritative—and now, completely up-to-date—edition of the young master's entire poetic ouvre.
496 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1966
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 62 reviews
March 21, 2007
English-language poetry, excepting maybe the contributions of the Beats, has remained largely untouched by the Rimbaud phantasmagoria - interestingly enough, his enfant terrible personality made him more influential among protopunk musicians than poets. However, anyone who's ventured even slightly into the realm of European verse has fallen beneath the vast shadow of Rimbaud.
Considered the greatest of French poets by many, his verses were made even more remarkable by the dangerous philosophy of the poète voyant that nearly destroyed his sanity and his life, and the fact that he stopped writing entirely before he was twenty. He is, in many people's eyes, a pseudo-religious figure, the patron saint or patron demon of French letters, the beginning and end of modern poetry.
Well, I'm certainly not going to argue with that. On to the book.
This is, unfortunately, the definitive English translation of Rimbaud, "corrected" a handful of decades after the original printing, removing such stupid mistakes as "que chante le coq gaulois" rendered in English as "the Gallic cock grows." - the intended meaning, of course, being crows. Considering that the publishers found it necessary to drag in a whole other man to fix the translator's mistakes, it doesn't really give you confidence as to the quality of the translation, eh? Though I'm willing to give Fowlie the benefit of the doubt and assume that most of the changes were due to new versions of Rimbaud manuscripts cropping up and recently uncovered knowledge changing the way we interpret him.
The translation was originally intended, I believe, for people who read a little French but need some extra help. It doesn't stand up as well on its own, and if you think you can manage it in the original French, by all means, give it a try, but Rimbaud is, even in the crudest of translations (and Fowlie's work is, admittedly, far from the worst one could do), a transcendent, visionary genius. His poems are as dangerous and soul-warping as they were 115 years ago. I would suggest that people with mental problems (such as myself - after reading this I promptly changed my surname to Rimbaud and ran around the country ruining my life in the name of achieving poetic transcendence - not that I regretted it much, but still, in and out of rehab and mental institutions is no way to go through life, son) and/or poets with no remaining survival instincts stay away from Rimbaud. Or, no, rather, do, and immediately - the world needs new Rimbauds, now more so than ever.
As for everyone else, Rimbaud is best read with knowledge of the man - the boy, rather - behind the words. I would suggest first purchasing a biography or two as a companion piece and perhaps watching the film Total Eclipse, with David Thewlis as Rimbaud's lover Paul Verlaine and Leonardo diCaprio doing a surprisingly good job portraying the avant-garde poet himself.
Considered the greatest of French poets by many, his verses were made even more remarkable by the dangerous philosophy of the poète voyant that nearly destroyed his sanity and his life, and the fact that he stopped writing entirely before he was twenty. He is, in many people's eyes, a pseudo-religious figure, the patron saint or patron demon of French letters, the beginning and end of modern poetry.
Well, I'm certainly not going to argue with that. On to the book.
This is, unfortunately, the definitive English translation of Rimbaud, "corrected" a handful of decades after the original printing, removing such stupid mistakes as "que chante le coq gaulois" rendered in English as "the Gallic cock grows." - the intended meaning, of course, being crows. Considering that the publishers found it necessary to drag in a whole other man to fix the translator's mistakes, it doesn't really give you confidence as to the quality of the translation, eh? Though I'm willing to give Fowlie the benefit of the doubt and assume that most of the changes were due to new versions of Rimbaud manuscripts cropping up and recently uncovered knowledge changing the way we interpret him.
The translation was originally intended, I believe, for people who read a little French but need some extra help. It doesn't stand up as well on its own, and if you think you can manage it in the original French, by all means, give it a try, but Rimbaud is, even in the crudest of translations (and Fowlie's work is, admittedly, far from the worst one could do), a transcendent, visionary genius. His poems are as dangerous and soul-warping as they were 115 years ago. I would suggest that people with mental problems (such as myself - after reading this I promptly changed my surname to Rimbaud and ran around the country ruining my life in the name of achieving poetic transcendence - not that I regretted it much, but still, in and out of rehab and mental institutions is no way to go through life, son) and/or poets with no remaining survival instincts stay away from Rimbaud. Or, no, rather, do, and immediately - the world needs new Rimbauds, now more so than ever.
As for everyone else, Rimbaud is best read with knowledge of the man - the boy, rather - behind the words. I would suggest first purchasing a biography or two as a companion piece and perhaps watching the film Total Eclipse, with David Thewlis as Rimbaud's lover Paul Verlaine and Leonardo diCaprio doing a surprisingly good job portraying the avant-garde poet himself.
July 17, 2012
I enjoyed this translation, though I like elements of the translation by Wyatt Mason better. If I find the time down the road, I would like to subject them to a more rigorous juxtaposition. I am particularly fond, as always, of "Un Saison en Enfer" and "Illuminations." I also found the letters more enjoyable this time around, particularly the earlier letters about his literary life. The later letters to his family were very sad, highlighting what he describes as a "miserable life." It helped me rediscover my love and appreciation for Rimbaud and his marvelous poetic hallucinations, truly a "seer."
April 12, 2021
"So, what is this dark and impenetrable mystery? / Why, without raising up their white sail, does / every young royal rigged skiff sink?"
The young rebel-poet, Arthur Rimbaud, was never fit to forget or relive his childhood. All of his poems and prose works have this at their pith: he is stuck. In "Memory," his boat is caught in the perfect pond of Eden; in "The Orphan's Gifts," the children live on souvenirs from their late mother; and, in many of them, any crack at a "New Year" will result in a sad song or the donning of a train of snow.
It is for this reason that Rimbaud revolted. He felt compelled to "changer le vie" as he found it in young adulthood. Through his eyes, man's achievements are pitiful attempts to fill the voids left by an idyll. A lot of this emotional trauma stems from the rapidity with which he was forced to grow up--at the ripe age of 16 he was a popular poet dating a married man and living far from his home. By 37 he was dead.
However, at no point does Rimbaud conform: you will never catch him diagnosing or analyzing or hypothesizing. What the poet-in-revolt does is relay a fever; he avers his own hallucinatory event. At bottom, he is the only one with a "key to this circus." This is both his greatest strength and weakness as a writer. His work is like nothing else, but the fabulism is frequently met (at least by me) with confusion and obfuscation. I often found his worlds inscrutable, if not entirely removed. Despite this, I would still recommend him to any young, would-be poet, and I wish I had read him earlier in my life--before the fire fizzled.
"But how it has changed: the home we once had..."
The young rebel-poet, Arthur Rimbaud, was never fit to forget or relive his childhood. All of his poems and prose works have this at their pith: he is stuck. In "Memory," his boat is caught in the perfect pond of Eden; in "The Orphan's Gifts," the children live on souvenirs from their late mother; and, in many of them, any crack at a "New Year" will result in a sad song or the donning of a train of snow.
It is for this reason that Rimbaud revolted. He felt compelled to "changer le vie" as he found it in young adulthood. Through his eyes, man's achievements are pitiful attempts to fill the voids left by an idyll. A lot of this emotional trauma stems from the rapidity with which he was forced to grow up--at the ripe age of 16 he was a popular poet dating a married man and living far from his home. By 37 he was dead.
However, at no point does Rimbaud conform: you will never catch him diagnosing or analyzing or hypothesizing. What the poet-in-revolt does is relay a fever; he avers his own hallucinatory event. At bottom, he is the only one with a "key to this circus." This is both his greatest strength and weakness as a writer. His work is like nothing else, but the fabulism is frequently met (at least by me) with confusion and obfuscation. I often found his worlds inscrutable, if not entirely removed. Despite this, I would still recommend him to any young, would-be poet, and I wish I had read him earlier in my life--before the fire fizzled.
"But how it has changed: the home we once had..."
February 15, 2021
Review to come for this collection of mad, delirious, sublime masterpieces!
February 4, 2025
this is my bible. Rimbaud was always marching to his own drums. The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.
August 11, 2022
So many remarkable passages. Here's a couple:
"For I is someone else. If brass wakes up a trumpet, it is not its fault. This is obvious to me: I am present at this birth of my thought: I watch it and listen to it: I draw a stroke of the bow: the symphony makes its stir in the depths, or comes onto the stage in a leap. If old imbeciles had not discovered only the false meaning of the Ego, we would not have to sweep away those millions of skeletons which, for time immemorial! have accumulated the results of their one-eyed intellects by claiming to be the authors!"
"The wolf cried under the leaves
As he spat out the fine feathers
Of his meal of fowl:
Like him I consume myself.
Lettuce and fruit
Wait only to be picked;
But the spider of the hedge
Eats only violets.
Let me sleep! Let me boil
At the altars of Solomon.
Boiling water courses over the rust,
And mixes with the Kidron."
"For I is someone else. If brass wakes up a trumpet, it is not its fault. This is obvious to me: I am present at this birth of my thought: I watch it and listen to it: I draw a stroke of the bow: the symphony makes its stir in the depths, or comes onto the stage in a leap. If old imbeciles had not discovered only the false meaning of the Ego, we would not have to sweep away those millions of skeletons which, for time immemorial! have accumulated the results of their one-eyed intellects by claiming to be the authors!"
"The wolf cried under the leaves
As he spat out the fine feathers
Of his meal of fowl:
Like him I consume myself.
Lettuce and fruit
Wait only to be picked;
But the spider of the hedge
Eats only violets.
Let me sleep! Let me boil
At the altars of Solomon.
Boiling water courses over the rust,
And mixes with the Kidron."
May 8, 2012
I've always felt that it was extremely important to read poetry in the language in which it was originally written - just to capture both the rhythm and also the more nuanced meaning. This edition is brilliant because it puts both the original French version next to translated English version for those of us who can get by in French but maybe don't have a big enough vocabulary in all cases.
December 29, 2017
It seems Fowlie sacrifices much of the music and intelligibility of the original for the sake of using the same punctuation and syntax as the author. Notes are not useful and there are quite a few typos in the French version of the text.
January 21, 2018
I was so happy to find a bilingual edition of Rimbaud's work, moreover, the letters at the end are very interesting!!
November 7, 2023
I picked this up, and promptly put it down for a bit more than a month. Then I picked it up once more. In that time, life was busy, as it is wont to being, and so the way in which I read Rimbaud was not necessarily similar between the first attempt and the second. On the first, I was surely experiencing a mix of reading-fatigue and an interest in putting my time elsewhere. Recently, on the second attempt, Rimbaud was far fresher and reminded me quite a bit of the lyrics and writing of Michael Gira. The significance of boundary-breaking poetry is almost entirely lost upon me, who has not read enough poetry from around Rimbaud’s era to judge it against – add on the fact that this is a translation, and it inherently dictates that the ears which the words fall upon are going to be deaf in some way, shape, or form. All the same, I enjoyed it. The perverted and brutish language of an immature and ambitious young adult is sincere enough, if grating at times. The imagery of humiliation, shit, and fear of the divine all strike a satisfying nerve for me, who isn’t into humiliation kinks, isn’t afraid of shit, and has no fear or worries about their supposed lack of a relationship with some God or other. In all, Rimbaud feels raw. I don’t think my normal methodology of reading really fit him, which made it fun in a way to kind of throw away the pen, and let his tongue and cheek language shine. I am pleased, and find him to be a memorable writer, though if I were ever in this neighborhood again, I would simply read The Consumer or The Knot by Gira instead.
April 12, 2017
As always remarked, it's remarkable that Rimbaud wrote most of his poetry, almost all of it, in fact, before he was 20 years old, spending the rest of his life traveling the world and selling coffee. Which is even more incredible because he really is an outstanding poet, well ahead of his time and setting the groundwork for Surrealism and symbolism and all kinds of avant-garde crap. The puzzling thing is how, why? But that hardly matters, since we'll never know.
As for the poetry, it's brash and often disturbing, often erotic and hairy-assed (no kidding). Rimbaud's torrid affair with Paul Verlaine is the axis for some of the poems here. Others are strikingly unjuvenile pith, lashing out playfully against the world.
As for the poetry, it's brash and often disturbing, often erotic and hairy-assed (no kidding). Rimbaud's torrid affair with Paul Verlaine is the axis for some of the poems here. Others are strikingly unjuvenile pith, lashing out playfully against the world.
February 18, 2008
if there's anything in being a 'lord of language' it's Rimbaud. The poems don't work on your conscious mind, though if you want to parse out the pattern of his imagery and references and style, you can.
He hits you between the eyes with his visionary attitude, rebellion, braggadoccio, and prodigiosity.
Violently sensual, wickedly tender, stupidly erudite, insanely rational.....
he's worth fucking up your mind over.
"Derangement of the senses"- yes, please.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 9, 2020
The two days I couldn’t detach myself from Rimbaud’s writings felt like a waking fever dream, but a soft one. I’m hungry for more of his chaotic energy, and as that’s not possible, the next appropriate thing to do is emulate his behaviors, his visions, his swirling nights and a fevered pen, no?
I’d never read a line by Rimbaud before this. I’m struck, dizzy, wondering.
“When I was a child,
my vision was refined in certain skies;
my face is the product of every nuance.”
I’d never read a line by Rimbaud before this. I’m struck, dizzy, wondering.
“When I was a child,
my vision was refined in certain skies;
my face is the product of every nuance.”
July 21, 2012
This book changed my life.
Read
December 20, 2015I only wish there was more.
December 31, 2021
Its really really excellent, from the gallant gunslinger.
Read
January 24, 2022Boringgg
May 15, 2023
This book has undoubtedly changed the course of my life
January 16, 2024
The only person I’ve ever heard of who didn’t squander their youth. Rimbaud is the first poet I ever read and still still stands like a giant almost 150 years on. Bravo.
Read
July 15, 2025/ a season in hell
October 1, 2017
Arthur Rimbaud was--is a labyrinth. Even after two readings of his complete works, months of study, and quadruple-checking his short poems, I am only slightly closer to discerning his meaning than I was at the start of all this. It probably doesn't help that translating his brilliant, French technicality is a sheer impossibility. Even for skilled translators like Wallace Fowlie and Seth Whidden, Rimbaud's cadence, rhyme, and meter is perhaps untranslatable, especially for a language as crude and awkward as English can be.
Getting to the center of Rimbaud's labyrinth is not as rewarding as it should be. That's not to say I didn't enjoy the work. Rimbaud's disposition, a teenage impoverished homosexual Seer who wanted to 'derange all of his senses' lends itself to strong writing. His technical skills far outweigh his message and ideas, though. Oftentimes, after sifting through a particularly difficult poem, I was left with a simple platitude or a juvenile idea. His shorter, comedic, and less surreal poems were the ones I enjoyed the most. He is the poet-equivalent of Johnny Cash giving his middle finger to camera onstage. He rejected religion, provincial lifestyle, politics, and even older poetry as he mentions in his letters to his lover Paul Verlaine and friend Paul Demeny. His poems reflect a teenage cynicism and mercurial obsession with various influences. I just wish there were more to it all. I truly wish he had not quit writing at 21, because he had all the early makings of what could have been genius. However, I don't think that he had the life experience yet to give meaning to his ideals or even meaning to his technical brilliance.
I have compared his poems to early Bob Dylan songs, but without the choruses to tie them together. Imagine Bob Dylan's "With God on our Side" but without the chorus. The verses would certainly be interesting, but you need that strong central melody to tie it up nicely. I think Rimbaud knew he need something like this as well, because you find in his later work (See: 'Eternity,' 'Youth,' and his best poem: 'Song of the Highest Tower) that he would repeat phrases that sum up his meanings. If he had kept developing his style at this comet's pace, by the time he was 30 he could have been one of the best poets of all time.
His prose was his best work. He wrote two major books in this area: A Season in Hell and Illuminations. Both of these are the work of a prodigy. They are moving, sad, frightening, and honest in a way that is astounding having come from such a young person. With that being said, they are quite difficult to dig into in their English iterations. They also aren't as memorable as many other prose works. Compare Illuminations with anything Oscar Wilde wrote. Wilde's writings have always stuck with me, but the only part from A Season of Hell I can truly recall verbatim is Delirium 1.
The letters might be the most exciting part of the entire work. Rimbaud's life was fascinating and odd. He was unable to ever stay in one place for long, often to great expense and even life-threatening danger. He had a homosexual relationship with a man twice his age as a teenager, was shot in the hand by said lover, lived as a vagabond in Paris at 17, quit writing at 21, moved to Egypt to sell and trade coffee, then rifles, and soon after he developed a cancer in his legs and became paralyzed and shortly thereafter he sadly died. His life itself is so interesting that it can sometimes supersede his work. His existence was a testament to the commitment he had to his ideals.
He was very brave. His letters, particularly the ones to Verlaine and his mother, almost moved me to the point of tears. There was a certain depth to his soul and character beyond his years, and he often mentioned that his misery aged him faster than normal. His life, and his writings, were much too brief. His influence lives on, however, in most poetry today. My favorite poet, Frank O'Hara, took some of that influence and made it more palatable and modern.
I respect and admire Rimbaud as an author much more than I enjoy his work. I challenge any aspiring author, poet, or even artist to enter his labyrinth. I just wish he had more time, something I would wish for any poet.
Getting to the center of Rimbaud's labyrinth is not as rewarding as it should be. That's not to say I didn't enjoy the work. Rimbaud's disposition, a teenage impoverished homosexual Seer who wanted to 'derange all of his senses' lends itself to strong writing. His technical skills far outweigh his message and ideas, though. Oftentimes, after sifting through a particularly difficult poem, I was left with a simple platitude or a juvenile idea. His shorter, comedic, and less surreal poems were the ones I enjoyed the most. He is the poet-equivalent of Johnny Cash giving his middle finger to camera onstage. He rejected religion, provincial lifestyle, politics, and even older poetry as he mentions in his letters to his lover Paul Verlaine and friend Paul Demeny. His poems reflect a teenage cynicism and mercurial obsession with various influences. I just wish there were more to it all. I truly wish he had not quit writing at 21, because he had all the early makings of what could have been genius. However, I don't think that he had the life experience yet to give meaning to his ideals or even meaning to his technical brilliance.
I have compared his poems to early Bob Dylan songs, but without the choruses to tie them together. Imagine Bob Dylan's "With God on our Side" but without the chorus. The verses would certainly be interesting, but you need that strong central melody to tie it up nicely. I think Rimbaud knew he need something like this as well, because you find in his later work (See: 'Eternity,' 'Youth,' and his best poem: 'Song of the Highest Tower) that he would repeat phrases that sum up his meanings. If he had kept developing his style at this comet's pace, by the time he was 30 he could have been one of the best poets of all time.
His prose was his best work. He wrote two major books in this area: A Season in Hell and Illuminations. Both of these are the work of a prodigy. They are moving, sad, frightening, and honest in a way that is astounding having come from such a young person. With that being said, they are quite difficult to dig into in their English iterations. They also aren't as memorable as many other prose works. Compare Illuminations with anything Oscar Wilde wrote. Wilde's writings have always stuck with me, but the only part from A Season of Hell I can truly recall verbatim is Delirium 1.
The letters might be the most exciting part of the entire work. Rimbaud's life was fascinating and odd. He was unable to ever stay in one place for long, often to great expense and even life-threatening danger. He had a homosexual relationship with a man twice his age as a teenager, was shot in the hand by said lover, lived as a vagabond in Paris at 17, quit writing at 21, moved to Egypt to sell and trade coffee, then rifles, and soon after he developed a cancer in his legs and became paralyzed and shortly thereafter he sadly died. His life itself is so interesting that it can sometimes supersede his work. His existence was a testament to the commitment he had to his ideals.
He was very brave. His letters, particularly the ones to Verlaine and his mother, almost moved me to the point of tears. There was a certain depth to his soul and character beyond his years, and he often mentioned that his misery aged him faster than normal. His life, and his writings, were much too brief. His influence lives on, however, in most poetry today. My favorite poet, Frank O'Hara, took some of that influence and made it more palatable and modern.
I respect and admire Rimbaud as an author much more than I enjoy his work. I challenge any aspiring author, poet, or even artist to enter his labyrinth. I just wish he had more time, something I would wish for any poet.
October 30, 2017
I have a feeling this text's translation faltered in some areas - in Rimbaud's earlier poems and his letters the renditions were fine, but the later, surrealist, prose-y material felt undecipherable in some parts. I'm not very fluent in French but I caught myself quite a few times glancing at the left side of the page and re-arranging the English words to make them sound prettier - I do love the arrangement of words. Maybe I should become a translator. Rimbaud's poems did solidify my want to continue to learn French with more focus. Particularly the material structured to rhyme in the original text was pleasant even to gaze on.
Some of the poems were pretty boring, maybe because I'm not all that big a fan of figurative language. Rimbaud's development as a person was fascinating to go through. He ended up being an enormous leech; it reminded me of people I know. I also wish more letters to Verlaine were included, because those were the most intense of his correspondences by far.
Not a bad read by any stretch, but I think I've had enough of this lad for a few years. O Angst! O Angst! I worship you!
I
We aren't serious when we're seventeen.
—One fine evening, to hell with beer and lemonade,
Noisy cafés with their shining lamps!
We walk under the green linden trees of the park
The lindens smell good in the good June evenings!
At times the air is so scented that we close our eyes.
The wind laden with sounds—the town isn't far—
Has the smell of grapevines and beer...
II
—There you can see a very small patch
Of dark blue, framed by a little branch,
Pinned up by a naughty star, that melts
In gentle quivers, small and very white...
Night in June! Seventeen years old! —We are overcome by it all
The sap is champagne and goes to our head...
We talked a lot and feel a kiss on our lips
Trembling there like a small insect...
III
Our wild heart moves through novels like Robinson Crusoe,
—When, in the light of a pale street lamp,
A girl goes by attractive and charming
Under the shadow of her father's terrible collar...
And as she finds you incredibly naïve,
While clicking her little boots,
She turns abruptly and in a lively way...
—Then cavatinas die on your lips...
IV
You are in love. Occupied until the month of August.
You are in love. —Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends go off, you are ridiculous.
—Then one evening the girl you worship deigned to write to you...!
—That evening, ... —you return to the bright cafés,
You ask for beer or lemonade...
—We're not serious when we are seventeen
And when we have green linden trees in the park.
Some of the poems were pretty boring, maybe because I'm not all that big a fan of figurative language. Rimbaud's development as a person was fascinating to go through. He ended up being an enormous leech; it reminded me of people I know. I also wish more letters to Verlaine were included, because those were the most intense of his correspondences by far.
Not a bad read by any stretch, but I think I've had enough of this lad for a few years. O Angst! O Angst! I worship you!
I
We aren't serious when we're seventeen.
—One fine evening, to hell with beer and lemonade,
Noisy cafés with their shining lamps!
We walk under the green linden trees of the park
The lindens smell good in the good June evenings!
At times the air is so scented that we close our eyes.
The wind laden with sounds—the town isn't far—
Has the smell of grapevines and beer...
II
—There you can see a very small patch
Of dark blue, framed by a little branch,
Pinned up by a naughty star, that melts
In gentle quivers, small and very white...
Night in June! Seventeen years old! —We are overcome by it all
The sap is champagne and goes to our head...
We talked a lot and feel a kiss on our lips
Trembling there like a small insect...
III
Our wild heart moves through novels like Robinson Crusoe,
—When, in the light of a pale street lamp,
A girl goes by attractive and charming
Under the shadow of her father's terrible collar...
And as she finds you incredibly naïve,
While clicking her little boots,
She turns abruptly and in a lively way...
—Then cavatinas die on your lips...
IV
You are in love. Occupied until the month of August.
You are in love. —Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends go off, you are ridiculous.
—Then one evening the girl you worship deigned to write to you...!
—That evening, ... —you return to the bright cafés,
You ask for beer or lemonade...
—We're not serious when we are seventeen
And when we have green linden trees in the park.
November 12, 2012
At this I looked up. He was wearing a pedantic grin and nodding his head as if he had just proven an irrefutable claim. His hair was the color of harvest hay which contrasted sadly with his apple-blossom complexion, setting to life the Bacchic impression of knowledge coupled with youth.
“It’s true,” he continued, “and what’s more their visions and stale, acrostic styles have left my heart cystic as a bloated gin blossom, a dense and troubling nausea which sinks below the belly of a black, spasmodic sea. I’ve seen the sun spotted with Hell’s mystic horrors as drunken corks dance upon summer’s green waves, their songs sung in false cadence and melting in the moonglow, a stagnant larghetto floating along the twilight and fitting my skin with fantastic disguises, a thousand starry sufferings composing my accouterment: cantankerous twaddle. An impotent dream. A vain hope, fame. Forgery! And now that same sun approaches autumn. Autumn! Autumn already! The season of dead leaves, wet smoke and drunkenness!”
He was cut short suddenly by the arrival of the waitress delivering the second course. He smiled politely, she not at all, and the moment she was gone he turned to me and continued:
“But in truth, boy, I have wept too much. Every sun is bitter, every moon atrocious. Autumn’s drunken rays are like the felling of trees...mournful, but necessary. The day this dawned on me the streets no longer seemed as blood, their pale stone entranced as sun-bronzed skin shot through with beryllium – their shallow puddles now as luminous currency. No longer do I swim beneath the fearful eyes of prison ships.”
“It’s true,” he continued, “and what’s more their visions and stale, acrostic styles have left my heart cystic as a bloated gin blossom, a dense and troubling nausea which sinks below the belly of a black, spasmodic sea. I’ve seen the sun spotted with Hell’s mystic horrors as drunken corks dance upon summer’s green waves, their songs sung in false cadence and melting in the moonglow, a stagnant larghetto floating along the twilight and fitting my skin with fantastic disguises, a thousand starry sufferings composing my accouterment: cantankerous twaddle. An impotent dream. A vain hope, fame. Forgery! And now that same sun approaches autumn. Autumn! Autumn already! The season of dead leaves, wet smoke and drunkenness!”
He was cut short suddenly by the arrival of the waitress delivering the second course. He smiled politely, she not at all, and the moment she was gone he turned to me and continued:
“But in truth, boy, I have wept too much. Every sun is bitter, every moon atrocious. Autumn’s drunken rays are like the felling of trees...mournful, but necessary. The day this dawned on me the streets no longer seemed as blood, their pale stone entranced as sun-bronzed skin shot through with beryllium – their shallow puddles now as luminous currency. No longer do I swim beneath the fearful eyes of prison ships.”
August 10, 2017
This translation is a bit dry--but it's still fantastic poetry. "My Bohemian Life," "At the Green Inn" and "A Dream for Winter" are all pretty amazing.
Here's a good Web site for Rimbaud poems:
http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/Poetry.html
Some of the other stuff is harder to get through--A Season in Hell is about like it sounds, very interesting but not the feel good hit of the summer, to be sure. The Illuminations are pretty near impenetrable, like Kerouac's Mexico City Blues, you need a professor right there for insight (or a good guidebook).
As I think I mentioned in a note, the letters he sent his friends and family are sobering to say the least--Rimbaud was every bit as racist as most colonials were at that time (I guess I expected more of him).
Still, this guy is legendary for a reason, writing all this before he was 20 years old (minus the letters) so it's worth your time.
Here's a good Web site for Rimbaud poems:
http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/Poetry.html
Some of the other stuff is harder to get through--A Season in Hell is about like it sounds, very interesting but not the feel good hit of the summer, to be sure. The Illuminations are pretty near impenetrable, like Kerouac's Mexico City Blues, you need a professor right there for insight (or a good guidebook).
As I think I mentioned in a note, the letters he sent his friends and family are sobering to say the least--Rimbaud was every bit as racist as most colonials were at that time (I guess I expected more of him).
Still, this guy is legendary for a reason, writing all this before he was 20 years old (minus the letters) so it's worth your time.
January 29, 2008
so, even though this collection includes a season in hell and the drunken boat i gave it a lower rating than the book with just those two poems...i know, weird huh? the reason: this collection can be a bit overwhelming if you are not already a rimbaud fan. while i enjoyed the many glorious encounters in this book nothing touched me as the two poems i mentioned above, it only added to my already established fervor for the man and his words.
i need to say that i am a middling poet (at the least, aren't we all post-teenagedom) and have no interest in poetry per se, beyond my attraction to great writing. so, don't be intimidated to read a season in hell (if only one...) and the drunken boat because they are fantastic in every sense of the word.
i need to say that i am a middling poet (at the least, aren't we all post-teenagedom) and have no interest in poetry per se, beyond my attraction to great writing. so, don't be intimidated to read a season in hell (if only one...) and the drunken boat because they are fantastic in every sense of the word.
February 7, 2008
I first read this excellent collection of Rimbaud's work as an underclassman, and his writing has stayed with me ever since. Haunting, alternately serene and tragic, always compelling, Rimbaud's poetry and poetic narratives have an enormous, if sometimes disturbing, power. A tragic figure in his own right (his writing career ended, for unknown reasons, at the age of nineteen after being shot by the poet Verlaine, and he died at the age of thirty-seven), Rimbaud bares his soul in these often searing pieces, and somehow manages to unite it with our universal experience of being all too human. Brilliant. This particular edition (from 1966) boasts both the original French text and the English translation on facing pages.
May 5, 2009
The best collection of Rimbaud's poetry, edited by renowned Duke University professor and Rimbaud expert Wallace Fowlie. Fowlie places the original French text on the left page and his English translation on the right. This is a great study tool. It is a challenging read if one is not familiar with French Impressionism. But Fowlie covers what you need to know in his excellent introduction, which invites further study. The Illuminations are perhaps the most difficult writings to grasp. I still have trouble deciphering some passages. But to think that Rimbaud wrote everything here in four short years is mind-boggling. If you are a writer or just enjoy poetry, check this out! You won't be disappointed.
March 1, 2013
I own this copy at present, though the translation I read was by Steven Mitchell, the latter being a more loose translation I think works well with Rimbaud. It captured the spirit more closely I believe. I read it in my rebellioous early 20's, and it was a perfect book for that time. It's since become absorbed and digested in me, so that I don't feel a need to read it much. To read the poems and letters in the different 'seasons' of his life, from Romanticism, charming revolt, to outright rebellion and finally a certain acceptance of modern life is to read the story of nearly any dissatisfied, disenchanted young person. It's a great read for younger adults, though again, I don't feel a need to read him anymore. 5 stars though.
January 25, 2008
I started reading this book cause it seemed like all my heros always cite him. I figured maybe there was some nuggets of inspiration to be had hidden in there somewhere. Realised it was all about sex , which to me is passe, and subsequently left it on the floor. Now, this isn't to say that it isn't a really really good read. The metaphors and symbolic archetypes are just the most rancid display of romaticisim i've bumped into recently. I'd recommend it to anyone afraid of porn yet still horny. Also, anyone who enjoys liguistic masturbation would probably intellectually ejaculate all over this piece.
September 12, 2008
After obsessively reading translations of varying quality since high school, I've decided to become as acquainted with French as is necessary to get a deeper understanding of Rimbaud's work. I've read Fowlie's trans. before, and it makes for pretty weak English poems; nonetheless, it is supposedly the most faithful, literal translation as well as the only complete bilingual edition. While others may make for more exciting English (esp. Stephen Berg's RIMBAUD, which he refers to as "inventions" rather than translations; also, Enid Peschel), this is a more stable and reliable side-by-side view into Rimabud's work.
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