Una temporada en el infierno / Iluminaciones

by Arthur Rimbaud

Con un puñado de poemas y un solo libro publicado en vida, Una Temporada en el Infierno, destruyó las bases de la poesía heredera de Baudelaire, y sembró el desorden y la subversión más profunda en la lírica europea. Otro libro, Iluminaciones, completaría esa experiencia de la totalidad en que Rimbaud convirtió su obra y su vida.


Sinopsis
A los dieciséis años, Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) llega a París en 1871 y se presenta en los ambientes parnasianos con un poema en el bolsillo: El barco ebrio. Adolescente terrible, llegó para destrozarlo todo en apenas cinco años. Con un puñado de poemas y un solo libro publicado en vida, Una Temporada en el Infierno, destruyó las bases de la poesía heredera de Baudelaire, sembró el desorden y la subversión más profunda en la lírica europea y se alzó en modelo del poeta vidente que busca más allá del sentido inmediato de las palabras. Otro libro, Iluminaciones, completaría esa experiencia de la totalidad en que Rimbaud convirtió su obra y su vida. Y si el primero se ofrece como el cuaderno de un condenado que transcribe su brutal y melodramática convivencia con Verlaine, el patriarca de los parnasianos, Iluminaciones es una especie de cartilla de la videncia donde el iluminado busca la liberación absoluta. Realidad y videncia crean en la obra de Rimbaud un lenguaje de tal potencia iconoclasta que ha permitido distintas lecturas de su imaginario: si los simbolistas abrieron estos poemas en busca de lo desconocido, para los surrealistas fue la subversión y la distancia luminosa entre las imágenes lo que hizo de Rimbaud uno de sus padres fundadores. Esta edición bilingüe y anotada para una lectura libre de tantas interpretaciones arbitrarias como Rimbaud ha sufrido, permitirá al lector captar la dimensión gigantesca de este poeta radical que abrió al siglo xx las puertas de una poesía nueva.

Arthur Rimbaud nació en 1854 y murió en 1891 de sífilis. Pocos son los que desconocen sus relaciones tempestuosas con Verlaine, sus inquietudes políticas durante la Comuna de París y sus dificultades para publicar sus poemas. Sin embargo, casi todo el mundo ignora sus andanzas por el «infierno» abisinio.

Genres: Poetry, Classics, France, Fiction, French Literature, 19th Century, Literature

310 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1873

About the author

Hallucinatory work of French poet Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud strongly influenced the surrealists.

With known transgressive themes, he influenced modern literature and arts, prefiguring. He started writing at a very young age and excelled as a student but abandoned his formal education in his teenage years to run away to Paris amidst the Franco-Prussian war. During his late adolescence and early adulthood, he produced the bulk of his literary output. After assembling his last major work, Illuminations , Rimbaud completely stopped writing literature at age 20 years in 1874.

A hectic, violent romantic relationship, which lasted nearly two years at times, with fellow poet Paul Verlaine engaged Rimbaud, a libertine, restless soul. After his retirement as a writer, he traveled extensively on three continents as a merchant and explorer until his death from cancer. As a poet, Rimbaud is well known for his contributions to symbolism and, among other works, for A Season in Hell , a precursor to modernist literature.

Reviews

[J.L. Sutton · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.”



A Season in Hell & Illuminations is a journey in which Arthur Rimbaud serves as poet, visionary and madman. Rimbaud's journey, the words and images he uses, is evocative and always speaks to me (even in translation). This doesn't mean I fully understand how Rimbaud's poetry should be interpreted or how each person should approach the poems. Still, there is no doubt that they are powerful. While I'm more drawn to A Season in Hell, I've read both parts multiple times and find something different each time.

“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.”

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

[Kate · Rating 5 out of 5]

A friend's boyfriend in college pounded on my door at 3am. I woke up groggy and let him in. "Hey, you like poetry, right? Well I got a poem for ya." Ok, I said. I sat on the bed and he began to read "Once if I remember it well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed..." He read on and on... I said "How long is this poem?" He said "It's the whole book!" I laughed. And we became good friends, and have been ever since. Rimbaud introduced us.

[M.L. Rio · Rating 5 out of 5]

Rimbaud is a regular autumn read for me, and every time I find another captivating detail I somehow overlooked before.

[trestitia ⵊⵊⵊ deamorski · Rating 4 out of 5]

.
Rimbaud hakkında çok şey söylenmiş, çok şey yazılmış ve çok fazla incelenmiş. Ben yoruma sadece okurken 'ne okuduğumu hissettiğim'i yazacağım.

4 şey ile tanımlayabilirim Rimbaud'u: bilinçli esriklik, yoğun metaforlar, anlatımsı tirat, düz yazı.

- Çok yakın zamanda Baudelaire okuduğum için etkilerini az çok görebildim. bunun başlıcası bu esriklik dediğimizde daha güzel olan LSD kafası yani ister gözün arkası deyin, ister gözün önünden çekilmiş perde, bunları aşarak şiir yazma çabası bu. bazen madde alarak 'sahtesine (öyle diyor)', bazen de deneyimleme ile geçiyor bu "bilinmez"e.
- Diğeri de sembolizm ancak Baudelaire kadar etkin-etkileyici kullandığını söyleyemem (yahut diğer sembolistlere nazaran). kendini öznellikten uzak tutmaya çalıştığı için olabilir bu.
- metaforlarını daha çok sevdim. ben bir şeyin elli ayrı sıfatla betimlenmesine, olmadık kelimelere olmadık anlamlar yüklenmesine bayılırım. metinleri sürekli bir 'tamlayan' 'tamlanan' cümbüşü.
- mutlaka denk gelmişsinizdir coşkulu bir tirata. benim en çok hissettiğim bu oldu, özellikle 'öznellik'ten kaçamadığı şiirlerinde. zaten matafor kullanmaktan oldukça uzunlu kısalı peşisıra cümleler yazdığı ve özellikle nida & ünlem çok fazla kullandığı için duyumsatıyor.
- Bu zamana kadar yazılmış bütün şiire öznel şiir deyip onları çöp saydığı için biçimi tamamen atıyor Rimbaud. Kitabı elinize ilk alsanız size 'kıssadan hisse' havası veriyor çünkü bildiğiniz nesir biçiminde şiirler ve bilinçli bi bulanıklıkta anlatıyor. ama beni rahatsız etmedi çünkü içerik kaotik olduğu için okurken ağdalı bir romanmış gibi gelmiyor. pek çok şiirinde, şiiri herhangi bir yerden bölüp alt satıra geçirseniz cümle öbeklerini, yine aynısını hissedersiniz. düşünün, Hugo'nun Sefilleri'ne "çok uzun bir şiir" diyor bir mektubunda, haşa.

Benim okuduğum bu baskının çevirisi bence çok güzeldi. zaten ilk 43 sayfa şairden önceki akımları ve şairin kendisini inceleyen bir çevirmen notu var. kitabın sonunda da şiirle ilgili açıklamalar var yine. ama tavsiyem, Rimbaud'un Cehennemde Bir Mevsim'in içinde bulunan "Sözün Simyası'nı okumanız, çünkü az çok kendi sanatını anlatıyor. Verlaine ile ilişkisi içinse 'Çingene Kız, Cehennemlik Koca'sı okunmalı. Ayrıca şuradan okuyabileceğiniz kitap (Rimbaud: The Works: A Season In Hell, Poems & Prose, Illuminations), bana oldukça fayda sağladı.

Belki ucuz bi tabir olacak ama bu yazıları, ailevi problemi olan, eşcinsel (bundan asla gerçek anlamda emin olamayacağım, verlaine'i kullanmış fikri daha çok yatıyor aklıma) ve kafası güzel bir serseri ergen yazıyor, siyasi olaylar acabası. bulunduğu dönem açısından yazdığı metinler, aykırılığı ve görülmemiş biçimi yüzünden etkilemiş, 21. yy'da beni de bu yüzden etkiledi.

Kendi kişisel zevkimden bağımsız bir serzenişte bulunmak istiyorum, ara ara gösterdiği gibi eğer ki kendini, yaşantısını ve ilişkilerini, hatta 'ben bir başkasıdır' sözündeki o başkasını anlatsaydı şiirlerinde, ne şahane olurdu. lsd kafasına hep ilgim vardır ancak ben içselleştirilmiş halini hep daha estetik bulmuşumdur, bu sinemada da öyle. çünkü tamam perdenin kalkmış halini resmediyorsun kelimelerle ve ee? nerede bu resmin duygusu, ritmi, ezgisi, spektrumu?

Yıllar önce okudum ama Paris Sıkıntısı beni ne kadar etkilemişti ve ben o zamanlar onun düzyazı şiiri olduğunu dahi bilmiyordum. haha.

Illuminations'tan özellikle Yaşamlar, ve Çocukluk, Tümceler, Sıkıntı, Cin; Cehennemde Bir Mevsim'den özellikle Kötü Kan, ve Cehennemde Bir Mevsim'e bayıldım. Fakat Yaşamlar gerçekten olağanüstü!

"kanımı mayaladım."
xoxo
iko

Bir de, Total Eclipse (1995) filmi tamamen Rimbaud - Verlaine ilişkisine odaklanmış bir film. Şairliğini fln aramanız boşuna bi çaba olur çünkü 20’sinden sonrasını da anlatmıyor. Bunun için A Season in Hell (1971)’e bakılabilir.

[Martyna Antonina · Rating 4 out of 5]

4,5☆

Wrażliwość Rimbauda jest niezwykła - przekorna, szorstka i wszystkiego wiecznie spragniona. To tomik pełen rozognionych myśli, płonących namiętnością życia. Gwałtowne, czasami lekko surrealistyczne wnikanie pod rzeczywistość alchemią słowa było naprawdę niepowtarzalnym doświadczeniem poetyckim. Momentami może trochę zbyt wydumanym i zaplątanym we własnej retoryce, jednak 28 znaczników mówi samo za siebie. Na pewno kiedyś wrócę, bo czuję, że mogłabym wyczytać więcej.

[Teresa · Rating 3 out of 5]

"Quando o mundo estiver reduzido a um só bosque negro para os nossos olhos espantados — a uma praia para duas crianças sinceras, — a uma casa musical para a nossa clara simpatia — encontrar-vos-ei.
Quando aqui só haja um velho, belo e calmo, rodeado de um «luxo inaudito» — ajoelhar-me-ei.
Quando for eu toda a vossa memória — seja aquela que sabe garrotar-vos — estrangular-vos-ei."

* * *

"Quando somos muito fortes, — quem recua? muito alegres, — quem cai no ridículo? Quando somos muito maus, — que fariam de nós?
Alindai-vos, bailai, desatai a rir. — Eu nunca poderei atirar o Amor pela janela."

Arthur Rimbaud nasceu em França em 1854. As suas obras poéticas mais importantes — Iluminações e Uma Cerveja no Inferno — foram escritas na adolescência. Aos vinte anos decide abandonar a escrita e dedicar-se ao trabalho: comércio de café e tráfico de armas. Esteve envolvido num escândalo pela sua relação com Paul Verlaine. Morreu de cancro aos trinta e sete anos.

Como "dizem" as três estrelas que coloquei nesta obra, a poesia de Rimbaud não "fala comigo". Excepto em alguns poemas de Iluminações, pouco entendi ou senti, quer na primeira vez que o li (há uns meses), quer agora. Termino com o meu poema preferido — que já deixei, por aqui, numa review de outro livro:

"REALEZA
Uma bela manhã, num povo de gente adorável, um homem e uma mulher soberbos gritavam na praça pública: «Amigos, quero que ela seja rainha!» «Quero ser rainha!» Ela ria e tremia. Ele falava de revelação, de prova terminada. Desfaleciam nos braços um do outro.
E efectivamente foram reis, por toda uma manhã, quando os véus carminados se ergueram sobre as coisas, e por toda uma tarde, para os lados dos jardins de palmeiras."

[Ben · Rating 4 out of 5]

I am going to try to make this review brief, particularly as I've already reviewed about 4 other translations of Rimbaud's poetry (by Varèse, Fowlie, Mason and Schmidt) and in my last review of one of these (of Schmidt's treatment of Rimbaud) I made a concise comparison of each of the different translations, really putting my support behind Mason's translation, finding Fowlie too literal and feeling that Schmidt took too many liberties in his translation.

Bertrand Mathieu's translation of A Season in Hell & Illuminations, to me, comes closest to Schmidt's. In many poems the reader gets the essence of Rimbaud, but I feel it is Mathieu's voice that is most commonly communicated on the page. Of course, I am basing this largely off of other translations that I have read. Mathieu's translation came out in 1991 (pre-Mason [2002]) and in his postscript he draws some comparisons between his interpretations and those of Varèse and Fowlie, arguing that their approach erred too often on the side of conservatism. I don't disagree with him here, but I think that he and Schmidt tend too often to err on the other side of the line, missing that very delicate balance that Mason best achieves.

I think that what I found most objectionable about Mathieu's translation was his attempt to push the language of Rimbaud forward into the late 20th century, using modern street slang that he felt would today be most in tune with the punk slang often used by the little poète maudit, translating l'ami as "the buddy" rather than as "the friend" and les seins as "titties" rather than "breasts" (just looking at one poem -- "Vigils" -- which Mathieu translates as 'Night-Watches,' for one example that I found particularly sophomoric in its style). Another thing that bothered me was that he translated "ennui" as "boredom" throughout, as have many translators of Rimbaud, but I take the position of James McGowan in his translation of Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal that ennui is something more "forceful" than boredom and that it should just be left as is, especially as the word is well enough known in American English. In other places I felt that Mathieu stripped the beauty out of certain phrases, such as the opening lines of Une Saison en Enfer, which has been translated by others as follows:

Varèse: "Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed."

Schmidt: "Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed."

Fowlie: "Long ago, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where everyone's heart was generous, and where all wines flowed."

Mason: "Long ago, if my memory serves, life was a feast where every heart was open, where every wine flowed."

And now Mathieu's: "A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing."

As stated early on, one gets a faint essence of Rimbaud, but what one is really reading here, I feel, is Mathieu. It's not bad, but it's not the Rimbaud that I've come to know and love. So why do I give it such a high rating -- 4.5 stars, let's say?

Well, first, it still does have the essence of Rimbaud and that counts for something, even if the language has become somewhat mangled. Second, I quite enjoy having the English and French texts side-by-side (a favored feature that can also be found in the translations of Fowlie and Varèse). And, finally, I really enjoyed the translator's preface and postscript. I learned some new things about Rimbaud's life from these, but the veracity of some things is questionable as certain key biographical details that Mathieu includes completely conflict with points made in the other translations that I have read. I think I will probably read Enid Starkie's biography of Rimbaud at some point and try to see what light she can offer. Of course, Rimbaud is not a poet who can easily be pinned down and the stories included by Mathieu, while different from those of other translators, are very interesting nonetheless -- missing pieces to a jigsaw puzzle that will never be complete. And Mathieu's postscript is also valuable in the sense that it, unlike other translations, points the reader toward works that influenced the young Rimbaud, including the works of Swedenborg, Eliphas Levi and the novels of Balzac. Quite interesting and worthy of further investigation.

If only for the preface and postscript, this is a work worth reading, but I would not recommend it to one discovering Rimbaud (by way of some translator) for the first time. These poems need to be read (particularly as the prose poem was still so novel at the time -- employed very well by Rimbaud, but first and equally well by Baudelaire), but start with Mason or even Fowlie, and move on from there. So much for the brief review that I had set out to write at the beginning.

[oscar wilde to nawet nie jest on · Rating 5 out of 5]

Zakochałam się.
Liczba zużytych na ten tomik znaczników jest zatrważająca, a rimbaud to poeta nad poetami (i chyba mój ulubiony z wyklętych)
Najbardziej urzekły mnie „Majaczenia” oraz „Miasto”.

„Widziałam całą dekorację, którą otaczał się w wyobraźni: ubrania, tkaniny, meble; użyczałam mu broni, innej twarzy. Wszystko, z czym się stykał, widziałam tak, jak on sam pragnąłby to dla siebie stworzyć. Kiedy jego umysł zdawał mi się bezwładny, towarzyszyłam mu, daleko, w osobliwych i zawiłych uczynkach, dobrych albo złych: pewna byłam, że nigdy nie wejdę do jego świata. Ile godzin czuwałam po nocy u boku jego drogiego ciała we śnie, doszukując się przyczyn, dla których tak mocno pragnie uciec od realności! Człowiek nie miał nigdy podobnego pragnienia. Przyznawałam - nie obawiając się o niego - że stanowić mógłby poważną groźbę dla społeczeństwa. - Czy zna tajemne sposoby, żeby zmienić życie? Nie, szuka ich jedynie - odpowiadałam sobie. Jego miłosierdzie jest, krótko mówiąc, zaklęte, i jestem w nim uwięziona. Żadna inna dusza nie miałaby dość siły - siły rozpaczy! - by je znosić i zostać podopieczną jego i kochanką. Nigdy nie wyobrażałam go sobie zresztą z inną duszą: widzi się tylko własnego Anioła, nigdy czyjegoś Anioła - tak myślę. Byłam w jego duszy jak w pałacu, który opróżniono, by nikt nie ujrzał osoby tak bezecnej: to wszystko. Niestety! Zależałam od niego. Ale co zamierzał zrobić z moim bladym i podłym istnieniem? Nie każąc mi umierać, nie czynił mnie przez to lepszą! W żałosnym gniewie mówiłam mu czasem: “Rozumiem cię”. Wzruszał na to ramionami.

Z bezustannie dokuczającym mi strapieniem i coraz niżej upadając we własnych oczach - i we wszystkich oczach, które zechciałyby na mnie spojrzeć, gdybym po wieczność nie była skazana na powszechne o mnie zapomnienie! - coraz silnej łaknęłam jego względów. Jego pocałunki i przyjazne uściski były mi niebem, posępnym niebem, gdzie wstępowałam z pragnieniem, by mnie tam pozostawiono, nędzną, ślepą, głuchą i niemą. Przywykłam już do tego. Myślałam o nas jak o dwojgu prostodusznych dzieciach przechadzających się swobodnie po Raju smutku. Byliśmy ze sobą zgodni. Współdziałaliśmy, do głębi wzruszeni. Po przeszywającej pieszczocie mówił jednak: “Jak dziwacznie, kiedy mnie już nie będzie, wyda ci się to wszystko, co przeżyłaś. Kiedy nie będziesz już miała moich ramion wokół szyi ani mojej piersi dla spoczynku, ani tych ust na swoich oczach. Bo trzeba mi będzie odejść któregoś dnia bardzo daleko. Muszę dopomóc także innym: to mój obowiązek. Choćby nie było to przyjemne... droga duszyczko...” I przeczuwałam zaraz, jaka będę po jego odejściu ogarnięta szałem, strącona w najstraszliwszą ciemność: śmierć. Wymogłam na nim obietnicę, że nie porzuci mnie. Złożył ze dwadzieścia razy tę obietnicę kochanka. Było to równie płoche jak moje słowa do niego: “Rozumiem cię”.”

[Hilary "Fox" · Rating 3 out of 5]

A Season in Hell & Illuminations was a book that I was introduced to in the dead of night. I was handed the text and asked to read and, being me, proceeded to open to random pages and read aloud in an impassioned tone. When read like this - in the middle of the night with all of its magic and attractions, the text is like fire.

Rimbaud's words alternatively scorch and caress, they raise up the most enlivened fancies and play out dark fantasies unlike anything else one could ever be exposed to. Rimbaud becomes the Father of all that is brutal and metal, he becomes the embodiment of debauchery and dark poetry; in this light he is pure electricity, and being that, strange, mysterious, and wonderful.

In the light of day, his prose loses some of that intensity. He becomes something tamer, better understood. In light of the preface, Rimbaud runs the risk of even failing to be purely Rimbaudian - he is human, after all, and simply a man, behind a desk, writing... I feel he loses his allure in this light, rather than gains it. Yes, he is human, but the legend is so much more fun and eagerly traced...?

I struggle between giving this novel three stars or four - in the right conditions, he is truly incredible and quite the beloved read. For now, I shall settle with three, and perhaps increase upon a later date.

[Jeff Jackson · Rating 5 out of 5]

Translations matter with Rimbaud. Francophile extraordinaire and Rimbaud enthusiast Dennis Cooper rates Enid Peschel Rhodes' translation published by Oxford Univrersity Press as the best. For my taste, he's absolutely right.

[Iza Brekilien · Rating 4 out of 5]

Review coming up next week !

[Antonomasia]

A Season in Hell & Illuminations, transl. Wyatt Mason
Having become absurdly near apoplectic in the search for a translation of Baudelaire that I loved, I let enjoyment return by instead reading one of his close kin. There wasn't a shortage of Rimbaud translations which felt right; Louise Varese or John Sturrock, or this one I chose for reasons I can't exactly remember.

As these are prose poems without conventional, clear focus, sometimes more like notes, I thought some readers must decided they were another set of the emperor's new clothes.[4 or 5, I can't decide.] In my teens I wonder if, regardless of exalted reputation among heroes of mine, I would have set Rimbaud aside after one reading after ... not quite getting into it ... as I did with Beat poetry. This stuff probably would have been wasted on my numb and spiky self back then, but still I wish with all my heart that I had read the French decadent poets when I was somewhat younger and had these lines pulsing in my veins for the last seven, or at least two, years.

Rimbaud's style is elevated and incantatory and comes very close to inducing the state I call inspiration. (Others, I'm sure, have different experiences of it and they have also been able to do more useful things with it... For me it even has a particular type of breathing associated with it and it was quite remarkable to notice this happening simply from reading.) On one plane I could still see how odd and flimsy these fragmented prose poems could look to some, yet the works were also a form of intoxicant: one which clears, not fogs, the mind and feels as if it opens doors. Right or wrong, the works feel as if they must have been written in some laser-focus fever state, tunnel visioned, nothing but the writing, the writing and the most basic of fuel; perfunctory sleep, unwashed, eventually reeking hair and clothes but a mind in cold fire.
Perhaps this is not just some weird wittering after all, given the influence Rimbaud has had on so many.

A Felt lyric says "you're reading from A Season in Hell but you don't know what it's about" but there's no shame in that when academics can't quite agree on its subject either.
the stanza L'epoux infernal is evidently about his former lover Paul Verlaine, like Rimbaud's own more exalted version of the jottings I and countless others gradually make in screeds and MB, so as to trap thought balloons containing relics of some lost one. Much else, though is a nebulous cluster of beautiful or anguished images.

"Mood piece" is a hack phrase I keep hearing in description of films with a similar effect. Reading both poems was like swimming in a heavy air. Illuminations was more pleasurable, sometimes psychedelic, an experience of incense (strong ancient stuff, not Nag Champa from a yoga shop), patterned cloth and the soft jangle of belled bracelets on dancers' ankles and wrists. A conjuration of the east, breadcrumbs for the hippie trail. I felt it unlocking new ways of saying things I'd thought of for aeons, and cursed not having known it before.

Need more.

[Read A Day Club · Rating 4 out of 5]

For Schopenhauer, the deepest problem of the self, afflicting itself, is our individuality. The will to live must live and fester on itself since nothing exists beside it, and it becomes temporarily will-less, a mere passive mirror of reality, where its attachment to suffering and satisfaction, happiness and unhappiness, willing and nothingness is a farce we are all forced to endure.

In Arthur Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell & Illuminations, to extinguish all human will to live, all human hope from one’s soul is to find eternity, a semblance of universality that makes the living of life more bearable, where the best thing to be and become is an outcast to one’s desires, to find in fleeing all the lost selves we’ve had to inhabit.

Morality and intuition, as a result, are possible on this shedding of self; the appearance of comprehending the self, one’s attachment to desire and emotion, the completeness of the human condition, all this makes up a part of reality where the denial of death and suffering are manifest.

The only route to its antithesis, of living an authentic life, of non-existence, is to break from life itself as a source of intrinsic value; it can be pursued, according to Rimbaud, by rebelling against the excesses of your very soul.

This is what makes A Season in Hell so impossible to write about and so potent... a grotesque fascinating read.

[James · Rating 5 out of 5]

“A Season in Hell” is infinitely more meaningful, and powerfully sad, after having read the details of Rimbaud’s life and exit from crafting poetry—which he considered himself a failure and reject among his peers at doing. Edmund White’s bio of Rimbaud shows him in full portrait—a restless, rebellious genius known for drinking absinthe and bashing around in cities for weeks on end, and lesser known for his solo travels on foot, walking through war-torn France and Africa hundreds of miles at a time to thrive in business, one time receiving a diagnosis from a doctor that he had walked so much “it caused his ribs to tear through his skin.”

Through this lens, “A Season in Hell” is not just a great work of poetry, but a glimpse into the driving force behind a human being who, I believe, wanted to be loved as intensely as he lived and in a style so fiercely and fearlessly that it killed him. This was 1870s Europe, by the way, not 1960s America or 2000s UK. It cannot be stated enough how much Rimbaud was a pioneer for lyricism and lifestyle, how huge of balls it took to be him and how evident those large balls are in his writing. And by the way, fuck Jim Morrison.

[Ryszard Kaloszke]

Absolutnie nie jestem obeznana w poezji, tym bardziej w tej pisanej prozą. Czytając ją zazwyczaj czuję się jakbym grała smyczkiem na klawesynie, słowem wydaję mi się że jestem niekompetentna do jakichkolwiek większych analiz czy do wystawienia oceny gwiazdkowej.

Co nie zmienia faktu, że ten tomik był fascynujący. Fascynujący w tym sensie, że zabrał mnie w jakąś inna, umysłowo-metafizyczną przestrzeń. Czułam, że nie rozumiem, ale ROZUMIEM, ale czy na pewno...?
Z pewnością wrócę jeszcze do Rimbauda!

[Jessica]

poets repulse me with their god forsaken wankerings. However, I've decided that I can include most other artists and humans for that matter, in the repulsive category so I decided to set my hatred aside and get this book. I'm really enjoying it.

[Autumn · Rating 3 out of 5]

i read this during my personal season in hell that i thought would never end. it was good to know that rimbaud and i have some things in common.

[Simon Robs · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sheer poetical madness no outcome. Better if could read French I'll bet.

[Nithin · Rating 3 out of 5]

Een seizoen in de hel: 2.0
Illuminations: 3.5

[Gabriele Fazzina · Rating 5 out of 5]

Premettendo che sono convinto vada letto in lingua originale, negli stralci in cui si intravede la magica prosa del folle genio di Rimbaud, è sublime.
Scrivere in questo modo a 18 anni dopo una delusione amorosa forse è il sogno di chiunque. Sono incredibili e cupe le immagini che è in grado di creare in questo viaggio nell'oblio. Il più grande dei poeti maledetti? forse; sicuramente il più emozionante.

Intanto è la vigilia. Accogliamo tutti gli influssi di vigore e di tenerezza reale. E all’aurora, armati di un’ardente pazienza, entreremo nelle splendide città.
Parlavo di una mano amica! È un bel vantaggio poter ridere dei vecchi amori menzogneri, e colpire di vergogna quelle coppie bugiarde, – ho visto l’inferno delle donne, laggiù; – e ora potrò possedere la verità in un solo corpo e anima.

[Marcos · Rating 5 out of 5]

algo me impide hablar de la forma en que este libro llegó a mis manos, pero aun así, y como siempre, agradezco todas y cada una de las decisiones que tomé para llegar hasta a ti, aquí, hasta la última página del libro, de esta efigie

[Yasemin Günindi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Asiliğin, asilerin kahramanı olarak görülmüş, aykırı bir şair Rimbaud. Dizeleri de diğer tüm kuralları yıktığı gibi yıkmış, düzyazı şiirler yazmış bir öncü. Özgür dizeyle yazmadığı şiirlerinin yakılmasını isteyen bir çocuk şair (İyi ki yakılmamış da Esrik Gemi gibi bir şiirden mahrum kalmamışız). Bu kitap istediği gibi tamamen özgür dizeyle yazdığı Illuminations ve Cehennemde Bir Mevsim’den oluşuyor. Şiirlerin çevirmeni olan Erdoğan Alkan’ın (Rimbaud şiirleri için en sevdiğim çevirmen, tavsiye ederim) 43 sayfalık oldukça bilgilendirici bir önsözü de var. Rimbaud, ilişki yaşadığı Verlaine ve bir tanrı olarak nitelendirdiği Baudelaire’le birlikte modern Türk şiirinin gelişimini etkileyen şairlerden. Erdoğan Alkan, “Sanırım Bilinmeyen’e Rimbaud sanrıyla, hayalle ve düşle ulaşmaya çalıştı.” diyor. Bu cümlenin değerli gördüğümüz, sanatın zirvesine ulaştığını düşündüğümüz sanatçıları özetlediğine inanıyorum. Rimbaud’nun bilinçli olarak Bilinmeyen’e ulaşma çabası onu benim gözümde bir deha haline getiriyor. Birçok sanatçının ilham perisi olan bu zekâ, doruk noktasında bırakmış şiiri. Kendisi pek resimden hoşlanmazmış ama onun şiirlerini okuduğumda zihnimi seyretmeye doyamıyorum. Bir cümlesinin içinde yüzbinlerce tablo saklı, belki de bu yüzden sevmiyordur resmi. Rimbaud’yu okuması ve anlaması çok kolay diyemem; ama eminim onun şiirlerini okuduğunuzda gördüğünüz gündüz düşlerini ve ardında bıraktığı hisleri ya çok seveceksiniz, ya da oldukça ürkeceksiniz.

[Andy · Rating 5 out of 5]

When I was a mere slip of a boy and my flesh tasted like chicken and goth had not quite creeped into non-existence I would sulk in dimly lit buses reading Rimbaud.
"Illuminations" reminds me of Baudelaire's "Paris Spleen" in that these are not poems so much as they are prose pieces, little snatches of light of varying shades. This is good reading on rainy nights.

[Mélinée · Rating 4 out of 5]

J’ai énormément aimé ce recueil mais je pense que j’aurais besoin de le relire. Le style de Rimbaud est parfois déconcertant mais il évoque des thèmes qui me parlent: le voyage, l’envie d’ailleurs… J’ai énormément aimé sa façon d’évoquer sa relation avec Verlaine, tout en métaphores, qui expriment sa douleur indicible.

[Tomás · Rating 2 out of 5]

entiendo lo revolucionario que sería para la literatura pero tomando los poemas por lo que son y contienen se queda bastante flojo. es simplemente un montón de imágenes y palabras rebuscadas donde tienes que decidir si te merece la pena o no interpretarlas y sacarles un significado más profundo o quedarte con lo que el poema evoca

[paula · Rating 5 out of 5]

«En otro tiempo, si recuerdo bien, mi vida era un festín en que todos los corazones se abrían, en el que todos los vinos corrían.
Una noche, senté a la Belleza en mis rodillas. —Y la encontré amarga. —Y la injurié.
Me he armado contra la justicia.
He huido. ¡Oh brujas, oh miseria, oh odio, a vosotros ha sido confiado mi tesoro!
He llegado a borrar en mi espíritu toda humana esperanza. Sobre toda alegría, para estrangularla, he ensayado la acometida de la bestia feroz.
He llamado los verdugos para morder, mientras perecía, la culata de sus fudiles. He invocado las plagas para ahogar con la arena, la sangre. La desgracia ha sido mi dios. Me he tendido en el barro. Me he secado en el aire del crimen. Y le he hecho buenas trampas a la locura».

Este libro, que de hecho fue el único consensuado por el mismo Arthur, ha sido un abrazo a lo profundo de mi alma, por varias razones personales.
Es increíble sentir cómo la fascinación que siento por Rimbaud ha aumentado aún más tras esta lectura. Me siento fascinada por su vida, por sus ideas, por lo que trasmitió, por lo que dejó, y sobre todo, por todo lo que fue.

Rimbaud quiso ser un alquimista del verbo. Y lo fue. Con la característica tan suya, imposible de definir en tan solo un término o una única palabra, fue un Poeta. Un Vidente.

❤️‍🩹

[v (e-vey)* 🍓 · Rating 4 out of 5]

şimdi kim deli?

[Johannes Lilover]

Did I really fuck up when I didn't study French in high school?

[Joshie · Rating 3 out of 5]

I first laid my eyes on the name 'Rimbaud' while reading Olivia Laing's In A Lonely City . I was partly curious and partly intrigued with the section dedicated to Wojnarovicz's Rimbaud in New York. This exhibit featured a number of people who donned Rimbaud masks with their photographs taken at different underground locations in New York. A hint of rebellion underneath the grit and grim can be felt in these photos. Rimbaud's face was pensive; prim and proper.

"I'm now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I'm working at turning myself into a seer. You won't understand any of this, and I'm almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It's really not my fault."

Rimbaud believed that he can attain full creative power by being the most corrupt version of himself. He lived a vagrant, libertine life which earned him the reputation of being an enfant terrible all the while having a tumultuous and lustful liaison with another poet, Paul Verlaine. In the span of three years he published his major works A Season In Hell and Illuminations. Afterwards, he gave up writing, travelled around Europe, and never looked back. These major works were lauded and praised by critics alike with their influence apparent on modernism, surrealism and even punk movements.

This paperback edition is a back-to-back collection of Rimbaud's two major works. His works were often in free-verse; evocative, elusive, often filled with symbolism which I personally found rather puzzling most of the time. I acknowledge that I may not have enough knowledge to completely understand them and I would not even try to write my interpretations. Most of these related to his personal life which were often nostalgic, tragic, and drastic. This collection greeted with the striking sentence ** "Long ago, if my memory serves, life was a feast where every heart was open, where every wine flowed." and who was I not to buy it when it moved me? Altogether, a solid collection which burned like hell and illuminated like fireflies dancing in the moonlight.

My takeaways from this book:
** "How I suffer, how I scream: I truly suffer. There's nothing I wouldn't contemplate doing now, burdened as I am with the contempt of the most contemptible of hearts." (p12)
** "I inhibited his heart as one might a palace: it was empty, precisely so no one would learn that a person as ignoble as you were there: and there it is. Alas! I needed him. But what did he want with me, drab and lifeless as I was? He didn’t make me a better person, and he didn’t manage to kill me! Sad, angry, I would occasionally say, ‘I understand you.’ He’d just shrug his shoulders." (p14)
** "I became opera: I saw that all living things were doomed, to bliss: that's not living; it's just a way to waste what we have, a drain. Morality is a weakness of mind." (p21)
** "One must be absolutely modern." (p28)
** "Even if I create all your memories — even if I know how to control you — I'll suffocate you." (p43)
** "Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity. What will become of the world when you leave? No matter what happens, no trace of now will remain." (p61)
** "Reality always too troublesome for my exalted character." (p75)

[Rodrigo Ferrari · Rating 3 out of 5]

o jeito que isso teria me transformado aos 17 anos!! “um tempo no inferno” é uma obra magnífica, bem escrita e assustadoramente profunda… queria que “iluminações” tivesse me impactado da mesma forma! mas não rolou, o que é uma grande pena.

com certeza lerei o resto da obra do rimbaud!

3.5/5 🤍