A Season in Hell Quotes

“In the morning I had a look so lost, a face so dead, that perhaps those whom I met did not see me.

- Bad Blood”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“In the dawn, armed with a burning patience, we shall enter the splendid cities.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Yes, my eyes are closed to your light. I am an animal, a nigger. But I can be saved. You are fake niggers; maniacs, savages, misers, all of you.

- Bad Blood”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“And this is what we call life! − If damnation truly is eternal! Isn’t the man who tries to mutilate himselfdamned then? I think I am in hell, therefore I am. It’s the fault of the catechism. I’m a slave to my baptism.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“I looked on the disorder of my mind as sacred. Disaster was my God.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“As of today, I rebel against death! Work seems frivolous; I'm a proud man, and a lifetime's work would be too brief an agony for me. At the last moment, I'd attack...to the right...to the left...And then—oh!—sweet old soul of mine, eternity would not have been wasted on us!”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Priests, professors, masters, you are wrong to turn me over to Justice. I have never belonged to this people. I have never been Christian. I am of the race that sang under torture. I do not understand your laws. I have no moral sense, I am a brute.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Let it come, let it come The time that we will love. So patient have I been That I’ve forgetten everything: Fear and suffering Have departed for the heavens, And an unholy thirst Darkens my veins. Let it come, let it come The time that we will love. Like the field Left to forgetfulness, Growing and flowering With incense and weeds, And the fierce buzzing Of dirty flies. Let it come, let it come The time that we will love. I loved the desert, burnt orchards, musty shops, tepid drinks. I dragged myself through stinking alleys, and with eyes closed I offered myself to the sun, the god of fire.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Quick! Aren’t there other ways of living?− To sleep in the midst of wealth is impossible. Wealth has always been public property. Divine love alone offers the keys to science. I see that nature is only a spectacle of plenitude. Farewell chimeras, ideals, errors! The reasonable song of the angels rises up from therescue ship: it is divine love. − Two loves! I may die of earthly love, die of devotion. I have left behind me souls whose suffering will only increase at my going! You chose me from among the shipwrecked, but what about the friends I left behind? Save them!”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Έγινα μια όπερα περίφημη: Είδα πως κάθε πλάσμα καταδικάσθηκε στην ευτυχία. Η δράση δεν είναι ζωή, είναι ένας τρόπος να εξασθενείς, ένας εκνευρισμός. Η ηθική είναι η αδυναμία του εγκεφάλου.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“The hallucinations are innumerable. That's what has always been the matter with me, in fact: no belief in history, obliviousness of principles. I shall say no more about this: poets and visionaries would be jealous. I am a thousand times the richest, let's be as miserly as the sea.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Delivered to oblivion...growing and flowering with incense and weeds to the sullen whine of nasty flies... I loved deserts, burnt out orchards, faded boutiques...I dragged myself down stinking alleyways... General, if there's an old cannon left, aim for the glass of splendid shops, into the living rooms...make the city eat its own dust.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“The wolf howled under the leaves As he spat out the bright feathers Of his feast of fowl: Like him, I devour myself. Lettuce and fruit Wait only to be picked; But the spider in the hedge Eats only violets. Let me sleep! Let me boil On the altars of Solomon. The broth runs over the rust, And flows into the Kidron. ——— At last– O happiness, O reason– I removed from the sky the blue that is black, and I lived, a glitter of gold in the light of nature. From joy I took an expression as clownish and distracted as possible: It is found again! What? Eternity. It is the sea merged With the sun. My eternal soul, Observe your vow In spite of the night And the day on fire. So you free yourself From human approbation, From common aspirations! You fly with . . . − Never any hope. Nul orietur. Science and patience, The torment is certain. No more tomorrow, Embers of satin, Your ardour Is your duty. It is found again! − What? − Eternity. It is the sea merged With the sun.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Oh! science! It has reconsidered everything. For thebody and the soul − the viaticum − we now have medicineand philosophy, old wives’ remedies and rearranged popular songs. And the diversions of princes and games they forbade! Geography, cosmography, mechanics, chemistry . . . Science, the new nobility! Progress. The world marches on! Why would it cease to turn? It is the vision of numbers. We are moving towards Spirit. What I say is certain, oracular. I understand, but not knowing how to explain myself without using pagan words, I prefer to hold my tongue.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“I ought to have a special hell for my anger, a hell for my pride, – and a hell for sex; a whole symphony of hells!”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“You must set yourself free
From the striving of Man
And the applause of the World
You must fly as you can...

- No hope forever
No orietur.
Science and patience,
The torment is sure.

The fire within you,
Soft silken embers,
Is our whole duty
But no one remembers.

It is recovered.
What? Eternity.
In the whirling light
Of the sun in the sea.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“I will tear the veils from every mystery: mysteries of religion or of nature, death, birth, the future, the past, cosmogony, and nothingness. I am a master of phantasmagoria.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“But no one leaves. - Let us set out once more on our native roads, burdened with my vice, that vice that since the age of reason has driven roots of suffering into my side - that towers to heaven, beats me, hurls me down, drags me on.

Ultimate innocence, final timidity. All's said. Carry no more my loathing and treacheries before the world.

Come on! Marching, burdens, the desert, boredom and anger.

Hire myself to whom? What beasts adore? What sacred images destroy? What hearts shall I break? What lie maintain? - Through what blood wade?

Better to keep away from justice. - A hard life, outright stupor, - with a dried-out fist to lift the coffin lid, lie down, and suffocate. No old age this way, no danger: terror is very un-French.

- Ah! I am so forsaken I will offer at any shrine impulses toward perfection.

Oh my self-denial, my marvelous Charity! my Selfless love! And still here below!

De Profundis Domine, what an ass I am!”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Terminé por encontrar sagrado el desorden de mi espíritu. Permanecía ocioso, presa de pesada fiebre: envidiaba la felicidad de las bestias —las orugas, que representan la inocencia de los limbos, los topos ¡el sueño de la virginidad!”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“I will never possess my hand.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“La început a fost un anumit studiu.Aşterneam pe hârtie tăceri,nopţi,notam inexprimabilul.Fixam vârtejuri.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Far from birds, from flocks and village girls, What did I drink, on my knees in the heather Surrounded by a sweet wood of hazel trees, In the warm and green mist of the afternoon? What could I drink from that young Oise, − Voiceless elms, flowerless grass, an overcast sky! − Drinking from these yellow gourds, far from the hut I loved? Some golden spirit that made me sweat. I would have made a dubious sign for an inn. − A storm came to chase the sky away. In the evening Water from the woods sank into the virgin sand, And God’s wind threw ice across the ponds. Weeping, I saw gold − but could not drink. − ——— At four in the morning, in the summer, The sleep of love still continues. Beneath the trees the wind disperses The smells of the evening feast. Over there, in their vast wood yard, Under the sun of the Hesperidins, Already hard at work − in shirtsleeves − Are the Carpenters. In their Deserts of moss, quietly, They raise precious panelling Where the city Will paint fake skies. O for these Workers, charming Subjects of a Babylonian king, Venus! Leave for a moment the Lovers Whose souls are crowned with wreaths. O Queen of Shepherds, Carry the water of life to these labourers, So their strength may be appeased As they wait to bathe in the noon-day sea.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Poor innocents! Hell has no power overpagans. − And still this is life! Later, the delights of damnation will be all the greater. A crime, quick, so I can fall into nothingness, condemned by human laws. Shut up, will you shut up! . . . Shame and Reproach are here: Satan says the fire is contemptible, my angerridiculous. − Enough! . . . Errors are whispered on their breath, spells, sickly perfumes, insipid music. − And to think that I hold truth in my hands, that I see justice: my judgement is sound and certain, I am ready forperfection . . . Pride. − The skin of my scalp is dry. Have pity! Lord, I am afraid. I am thirsty, so thirsty! Oh! childhood, the smell of grass, the sound of rain, water from the lake lapping on pebbles, the moonlight when theclock strikes twelve . . . that’s when the devil is in thetower. Mary! Holy Virgin! . . . − The horror of my stupidity. Aren’t there any honest souls who wish me well down there? . . .”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Hatırladığım kadarıyla, vaktiyle, hayatım bir şölendi, tüm gönüllerin açıldığı, tüm şarapların aktığı bir şölen.
Bir akşam, Güzelliği dizlerimin üstüne oturttum. -Ve onu çok acı buldum.- Ve sövdüm ona.
Adalete karşı önlem aldım.
Kaçtım uzaklara. Ey büyücüler, ey sefillik, ey kin, hazinem size emanet!
Kafamdaki tüm insani umutları yok etmeyi başardım. Her sevincin üstüne sıçradım bir vahşi hayvan gibi boğmaz için.
Yanıma cellatlar çağırdım, ölürken, tüfeklerinin dipçiklerini ısırayım diye. Belalar çağırdım, kumla, kanla beni boğsunlar diye. Mutsuzluk ilahım oldu. Çamura uzandım boylu boyuna. Cinayet havasıyla kurulandım. Ve nice oyunlar oynadım delicesine.
Ve ilkbahar getirdi bana budalalığın ürkütücü gülümsemesini.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Hacía ya mucho tiempo que me vanagloriaba de poseer todos los paisajes posibles, y que se me antojaban irrisorias todas las celebridades de la pintura y de la poesía moderna.
Me gustaban las pinturas idiotas: adornos de puertas, decorados, telones de saltimbancos, emblemas, estampas populares; la literatura pasada de moda: latín de iglesia, libros eróticos ignorantes de la ortografía, novelas de nuestras abuelas, cuentos de hadas, libritos infantiles, viejas óperas, estribillos bobos, ritmos ingenuos.
Soñaba con cruzadas, viajes de exploración cuya crónica no nos ha llegado, repúblicas sin historia, guerras de religión sofocadas, revoluciones de costumbres, desplazamientos de razas y continentes: creía en todos los encantamientos.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell & Other Poems

“At last, I began to consider my mind's disorder a sacred thing.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“Weakness or strength: you exist, that is strength. You don’t know where you are going or why you are going, go in everywhere, answer everyone. No one will kill you, any more than if you were a corpse.”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

“He malgastado mi vida. ¡Vamos! Finjamos, holguemos, ¡oh piedad! Y existiremos divirtiéndonos, soñando amores monstruosos y universos fantásticos, quejándonos y combatiendo las apariencias del mundo, saltimbanqui, mendigo, artista, bandido, ¡sacerdote! Sobre mi lecho de hospital, el olor del incienso retornó a mí tan potente; guardián de aromas sagrados, confesor, mártir…”
― Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell