Arthur Rimbaud, the poet cursed.
Запись от Luciana размещена 24.10.2011 в 21:42
October 20, 1854 Arthur Rimbaud was born.
I was shocked by the fate of this unique poet.
"People have finally realized the poet cursed from birth, is doomed to a terrible solitude, he - mad."
Jean Cocteau.
In broad terms, the dominance over him curse was deep existential gift, a state between delight and horror of life, the ability to hear all the whispers of call of Being.
From the book by Marina Vlady, "Vladimir, or interrupted flight":
"One night you come late, and by the way you slam the door, I feel that you are nervous. I see you from the kitchen into the hall. You throw a coat, hat and strode toward me, brandishing a gray book.
"It's too much! Can you imagine this type, the Frenchman - he drags me! He writes, like me, this is pure plagiarism! No, look: these words, the rhythm you do not recall? He had studied my songs as well? The scoundrel! And the translator - a scoundrel, do not hesitate! "
I can not read a word, you very quickly browse through the pages. Then you start to walk back and forth through the apartment, and hit the palm emphasizing the rhymes you quoting me the pieces that you are most outraged. I start to laugh, I can not stop. Panting, I finally tell you that from humble you are, apparently, did not die and that someone who makes you so mad, none other than our great poet, who was born nearly a century before thee, - Arthur Rimbaud. You open the cover sheet and the blush of a miss. And, leaving the offense, you're up all night reading with delight me poems famous poet. "
Rimbaud lived a short life-37 years - the classic age of genius. Its uniqueness lies in the fact that starting in 15 years to write, he goes out of poetry in 19 years. And during those five years he managed to go all the way, for which the European and particularly French poetry it took half a century. Rimbaud was a premature baby of 20 century. I hesitate, forgetting all the words ...
Deaf trails among the thick grass,
I'll go wander in the evening blue;
Touches the wind uncovered head,
And the freshness I feel under your feet.
I love the infinite fills the chest.
But I'll keep quiet and forget all the words.
I'm like a gypsy. go-farther, farther on the road!
And if a woman will be happy with nature.
Feeling that he continues to walk farther and farther into Eternity!
I was shocked by the fate of this unique poet.
"People have finally realized the poet cursed from birth, is doomed to a terrible solitude, he - mad."
Jean Cocteau.
In broad terms, the dominance over him curse was deep existential gift, a state between delight and horror of life, the ability to hear all the whispers of call of Being.
From the book by Marina Vlady, "Vladimir, or interrupted flight":
"One night you come late, and by the way you slam the door, I feel that you are nervous. I see you from the kitchen into the hall. You throw a coat, hat and strode toward me, brandishing a gray book.
"It's too much! Can you imagine this type, the Frenchman - he drags me! He writes, like me, this is pure plagiarism! No, look: these words, the rhythm you do not recall? He had studied my songs as well? The scoundrel! And the translator - a scoundrel, do not hesitate! "
I can not read a word, you very quickly browse through the pages. Then you start to walk back and forth through the apartment, and hit the palm emphasizing the rhymes you quoting me the pieces that you are most outraged. I start to laugh, I can not stop. Panting, I finally tell you that from humble you are, apparently, did not die and that someone who makes you so mad, none other than our great poet, who was born nearly a century before thee, - Arthur Rimbaud. You open the cover sheet and the blush of a miss. And, leaving the offense, you're up all night reading with delight me poems famous poet. "
Rimbaud lived a short life-37 years - the classic age of genius. Its uniqueness lies in the fact that starting in 15 years to write, he goes out of poetry in 19 years. And during those five years he managed to go all the way, for which the European and particularly French poetry it took half a century. Rimbaud was a premature baby of 20 century. I hesitate, forgetting all the words ...
Deaf trails among the thick grass,
I'll go wander in the evening blue;
Touches the wind uncovered head,
And the freshness I feel under your feet.
I love the infinite fills the chest.
But I'll keep quiet and forget all the words.
I'm like a gypsy. go-farther, farther on the road!
And if a woman will be happy with nature.
Feeling that he continues to walk farther and farther into Eternity!
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