Illuminations Quotes

“True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“I shed more tears than God could ever have required.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“I have stretched ropes from bell-tower to bell-tower; garlands from window to window; chains of gold from star to star, and I dance.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“Is it possible to become ecstatic amid destruction, rejuvenate oneself through cruelty?”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“Quand le monde sera réduit en un seul bois noir pour nos quatre yeux étonnés, - en une plage pour deux enfants fidèles, - en une maison musicale pour notre claire sympathie, - je vous trouverai.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Les Illuminations

“Against snow, a tall Beautiful Being. Whistlings of death and circles of muffled music make this adored body rise, swell and tremble like a ghost; scarlet and black wounds open in the magnificent flesh.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“What will happen to the world when you leave it? Nothing, in any case, will remain of what is now visible.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“La musique savante manque à notre désir”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“Peut-on s'extasier dans la destruction, se rajeunir par la cruauté !”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“I’m the Saint praying on a balcony - like peaceful beasts grazing along the Sea of Palestine.
I’m the scholar in a plain reading chair. Branches and rain beat the library windows.
I’m the pedestrian on the high road through the stunted woods; the sound of floodgates drowns out my footsteps. I stare at the melancholy wash of another golden sunset...
The path is harsh. The hillocks are weed. The air is still. How far we are from birds and streams. The end of the world must be just ahead.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“Magical flowers were humming. The turf slopes cradled *him.* Beasts of a fabulous elegance were circulating. Storm clouds were piling up on the rising sea made of an eternity of hot tears.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“Ho teso corde da campanile a campanile; ghirlande da finestra a finestra; catene d'oro da stella a stella, e danzo.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“Je dis qu'il faut être voyant, se faire voyant. Le poète se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens.”
― Rimbaud Arthur, Illuminations

“how full of flowers the world was that summer! Tunes and forms fading... ––A choir, to calm down impotence and absence! A choir of glass pieces, of nocturnal melodies... Soon, indeed, the nerves will slip their moorings.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“cement in bold relief,—far underground. I lean my elbows on the table, and the lamp lights brightly the newspapers I am fool enough to re-read, and the absurd books.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“Estendi cordas de campanário a campanário; guirlandas de janela a janela; correntes de ouro de estrela a estrela, e danço.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“It is wrong to say: I think. One should say: I am thought.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“Cuando yo haya realizado todos tus recuerdos ━cuando sea quien sabe sujetarte━ te ahogaré”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“From castles of bone unknown music comes

But now, that toil rewarded; you, your calculations,
––you, your fits of impatience––are no more than your dancing and your voice, not fixed and certainly not forced, although an added reason for a double consequence of inventiveness + success, ––in brotherly and discreet humanity throughout the universe devoid of images;––force and justice reflect the
dancing and the voices which are only now esteemed.

The voices of instruction in exile... The body’s ingenuousness bit- terly put in its place... –– Adagio –– Ah! the infinite egotism of adolescence, the studious optimism: how full of flowers the world was that summer! Tunes and forms fading... ––A choir, to calm down impotence and absence! A choir of glass pieces, of nocturnal melodies... Soon, indeed, the nerves will slip their moorings.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“AFTER THE DELUGE AS SOON as the idea of the Deluge had subsided, A hare stopped in the clover and swaying flower-bells, and said a prayer to the rainbow, through the spider’s web. Oh! the precious stones that began to hide,—and the flowers that already looked around. In the dirty main street, stalls were set up and boats were hauled toward the sea, high tiered as in old prints. Blood flowed at Blue Beard’s,—through slaughterhouses, in circuses, where the windows were blanched by God’s seal. Blood and milk flowed. Beavers built. “Mazagrans” smoked in the little bars. In the big glass house, still dripping, children in mourning looked at the marvelous pictures. A door banged; and in the village square the little boy waved his arms, understood by weather vanes and cocks on steeples everywhere, in the bursting shower. Madame *** installed a piano in the Alps. Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral. Caravans set out. And Hotel Splendid was built in the chaos of ice and of the polar night. Ever after the moon heard jackals howling across the deserts of thyme, and eclogues in wooden shoes growling in the orchard. Then in the violet and budding forest, Eucharis told me it was spring. Gush, pond,—Foam, roll on the bridge and over the woods;—black palls and organs, lightning and thunder, rise and roll;—waters and sorrows rise and launch the Floods again. For since they have been dissipated—oh! the precious stones being buried and the opened flowers!—it’s unbearable! and the Queen, the Witch who lights her fire in the earthen pot will never tell us what she knows, and what we do not know.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations: Prose poems

“Tenemos fe en el veneno. Sabemos dar nuestra vida entera, todos los días. He aquí el tiempo de los asesinos.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“I stare at the melancholy wash of another golden sunset...
The path is harsh. The hillocks are weed. The air is still. How far we are from birds and streams. The end of the world must be just ahead.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“I am the saint in prayer on the terrace like the peaceful animals that graze as far as the sea of Palestine.
I am the scholar in his dark armchair. Branches and rain beat against the library window.
I am the wanderer along the main road running through the dwarfish woods. The noise of the sluices drowns my footsteps. For a long time I can see the sad golden wash of the sunset.
I might be the child abandoned on the wharf setting out for the high seas, or the farmhand, following the path whose top reaches the sky.
The pathways are rough. The slopes are covered with broom. The air is still. How far away are the birds and the springs of water! This must be the end of the world, lying ahead.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“The first study for a man who wants to be a poet is the knowledge of himself, entire. He searches his soul, he inspects it, he tests it, he learns it. As soon as he knows it, he cultivates it.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“To arrive at the unknown through the disordering of all the senses, that's the point. The sufferings will be tremendous, but one must be strong, be born a poet: it is in no way my fault.”
― Arthur Rimbaud , Illuminations

“I might be the child abandoned on the wharf setting out for the high seas, or the farmhand, following the path whose top reaches the sky.”
― Arthur RImbaud, Illuminations

“Children's laughter marks both beginning and end. This poison lingers in our veins even when we withdraw to the silence of prior discord.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“বানভাসির পর
ইল্যুমিনেশান ১
বানভাসির ধারনা শেষ হবার পরই, একটা খোরগোশ গোরুর গোয়ালে আর দুলতেথাকা ফুলগাছের কাছে থমকে দাঁড়িয়ে, মাকড়সার জালের ভেতর দিয়ে রামধনুকে প্রার্থনা শোনালো।
ওহ ! যে দামি পাথরগুলো লুকিয়ে রেখেছিল, -- ফুলগুলো নিজেদের চারিধারে তাকিয়ে দেখছিল। নোংরা রাজপথে দোকান বসেছিল, তারা নৌকোগুলোকে টেনে নিয়ে গেল পরতে-পরতে ফুলে ওঠা সমুদ্রের ঢেউয়ে ঠিক যেমন পুরোনো ছবিগুলোতে দেখা যায় ।
যে নীলদাড়ি লোকটা নিজের বউগুলোকে একের পর এক মেরে ফেলতো, তার বাড়িতে রক্ত বইতে লাগল --- সারকাসের কসাইখানায় ঈশ্বরের প্রতিজ্ঞা শাদা করে তুলছিল জানালাগুলোকে। রক্ত আর দুধ বইছিল ।
ভোঁদোড়েরা গড়েছিল । শুঁড়িখানায় কফির পেয়ালায় উঠছিল ধোঁয়া ।
চারাগাছের বিশাল কাচঘরে জলফোঁটা ঝরছিল তখনও, সুন্দর ছবিগুলোর দিকে চেয়েছিল শোকাতুর শিশুরা ।
দরোজার পাল্লার আওয়াজ, আর, গ্রামের সবুজে, এক খোকা দুই হাত নাড়ালো, বেগবান ঝর্ণার তলায়, সব জায়গাকার ঘণ্টাঘরের হাওয়ামোরগ আর আবহাওয়া নির্দেশকগুলো তা টের পাচ্ছিল।
ম্যাডাম অমুক আল্পস পাহাড়ে একটা পিয়ানো বসালেন । গির্জার একশো হাজার বেদির ওপরে উদযাপন করা হচ্ছিল খ্রিস্টের নৈশভোজনোৎসব-পর্ব আর প্রথম ধর্মসংস্কার ।
চলে গেল মরুযাত্রীদল । আর বরফ ও মেরুরাত্রির বিশৃঙ্খলায় তৈরি করা হলো দীপ্তিশীল হোটেল।
তারপর থেকে, সুগন্ধগুল্মের মরুভূমিতে শেয়ালের ডাক শুনতে পেল চাঁদ -- আর ফলবাগানে কাঠের জুতো পরে চারণকবিতাদের অসন্তুষ্ট বিড়বিড়ানি । তারপর, থইথই বেগনি জঙ্গলে, বনানীর উপদেবী আমাকে বললো যে এটা বসন্তঋতু ।
ঝিলপুকুর, ফুলে ওঠো : ফেনায়িত হও, সাঁকোর ওপর আর গাছের তলা দিয়ে গড়িয়ে চলে যাও: -- কালো ঝালর আর অবয়ব -- বজ্র ও বিদ্যুৎ উঠে দাঁড়াও আর ঝাঁপাও : -- জল এবং দুঃখ ওঠো আর আরেকবার বানভাসিকে তুলে আনো ।
জল নেমে গিয়েছিল বলে -- ওহ, দামি পাথরগুলো নিজেরা চাপা পড়ে গিয়েছিল আর ফুটে ওঠা ফুলের দল ! -- তা বড়োই ক্লান্তিকর ! আর সেই ডাকিনী রানি, যিনি পৃথিবীর মাটি দিয়ে তৈরি পাত্রে আগুন জ্বালান, কখনও বলবেন না তিনি যা জানেন, আর আমরা কোন ব্যাপারে অবিদিত।”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

“CHILDHOOD I That idol, black eyes and yellow mop, without parents or court, nobler than Mexican and Flemish fables; his domain, insolent azure and verdure, runs over beaches called by the shipless waves, names ferociously Greek, Slav, Celt. At the border of the forest—dream flowers tinkle, flash, and flare,—the girl with orange lips, knees crossed in the clear flood that gushes from the fields, nakedness shaded, traversed, dressed by rainbow, flora, sea. Ladies who stroll on terraces adjacent to the sea; baby girls and giantesses, superb blacks in the verdigris moss, jewels upright on the rich ground of groves and little thawed gardens,—young mothers and big sisters with eyes full of pilgrimages, sultanas, princesses tyrannical of costume and carriage, little foreign misses and young ladies gently unhappy. What boredom, the hour of the “dear body” and “dear heart.” II”
― Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations: Prose poems