“Rimbaud was for the mad boy poet who had scrawled scatological letters to Paul Verlaine in Paris cafés. Blood and shit were among his greatest passions. At nineteen he'd tormented Verlaine into shooting him, but escaped with a flesh wound, drank up every franc he ever made, later ran off to Africa, lost a leg, and died of a fever at thirty-seven.”
— Apr 02, 2025 04:54AM
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