Written by Rimbaud at age 18 in the wake of a tempestuous affair with fellow poet, Paul Verlaine, A Season in Hell has been a touchstone for anguished poets, artists and lovers for over a century. This volume presents the text in French and English with photographs by Robert Mapplethorpe.
118 pages
Published
1995
by Broadwater House
(first published 1873)
I'm an organized person. Psychotically organized. Except when it comes to books. I try to plan my readings, I try to finish one book in order to begin a new one, but it's all in vain. I read what I want to read, whenever I have the need of reading it. So, with four books on my currently-reading shelf, today I felt like reading something different. First, some weird stuff by Tim Burton, then,
A Season in Hell
caught my attention and here we are.
Anyway, this is one of those books I should read whi
I'm an organized person. Psychotically organized. Except when it comes to books. I try to plan my readings, I try to finish one book in order to begin a new one, but it's all in vain. I read what I want to read, whenever I have the need of reading it. So, with four books on my currently-reading shelf, today I felt like reading something different. First, some weird stuff by Tim Burton, then,
A Season in Hell
caught my attention and here we are.
Anyway, this is one of those books I should read while being drunk. Unfortunately, I don't drink. So, it was kind of difficult to understand what the hell I was reading. This prose work, written by Rimbaud at age 18, is divided in nine parts. And that's the most accurate observation I can give. The rest is pure symbolism hard to get if you haven't read something about his life and his troubled affair with Verlaine (quite a profound inspiration here). These are words written by a young and tormented soul, desperate to put everything out there, to purge himself. Words written with exquisite sensibility, describing beautiful, dark, intense images. I saw that, in all its glory, in the first part,
Introduction
.
The second part,
Bad Blood
, it's a collection of the consequences of his ancestors, his blood, and other weird reflections that made me think I probably wouldn't like what he was smoking at that time.
The third part was... well, I don't want to say that I enjoyed reading it, because it's about the narrator's death and his arrival to hell (nothing really nice to read right before going to bed, honestly), but it's beautifully written. Again, this young man makes you feel what was going through his mind and soul with unsettling details.
The forth part is
Ravings I, Foolish Virgin, The Infernal Spouse
. I'm guessing you can imagine to whom he's referring in this one.
I shouldn't keep spoiling this, right?. So, during all this strange journey from existence on earth to condemnation in hell, it remains only one question to be asked: can he be saved? Even though he's already in hell, can he find any sort of mitigation, salvation even?
Yeah... I'm not answering that. I had a good, weird, dark, sad, freaky, confusing, unsettling, challenging, disturbing read. Your turn.
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« Finii col trovare sacro il disordine del mio spirito. »
Stamattina devo aver appoggiato il piede sbagliato sullo scendiletto. Altrimenti non si spiegherebbe perché la mia testa abbia associato una tazza di latte coi cereali (la crusca, detesto la crusca) ad Arthur Rimbaud. Non si spiegherebbe perché sono entrata in punta di piedi nella stanza-studiolo, ho aperto l’anta dell’armadio-libreria con un timore quasi reverenziale e ho tirato giù dallo scaffale il volume grosso e blu che giace lì da te
« Finii col trovare sacro il disordine del mio spirito. »
Stamattina devo aver appoggiato il piede sbagliato sullo scendiletto. Altrimenti non si spiegherebbe perché la mia testa abbia associato una tazza di latte coi cereali (la crusca, detesto la crusca) ad Arthur Rimbaud. Non si spiegherebbe perché sono entrata in punta di piedi nella stanza-studiolo, ho aperto l’anta dell’armadio-libreria con un timore quasi reverenziale e ho tirato giù dallo scaffale il volume grosso e blu che giace lì da tempo immemore. In copertina, lo scatto in bianco e nero del nostro diciassettenne terribile, gli occhi grigietti, l’espressione tra assorta e beffarda.
La verità è che ho sempre avuto un po’ paura di Arthur Rimbaud. Cioè, uno che a quindici anni è capace di scrivere una cosa come l’
Ofelia
non vi fa prudere le mani per la vergogna? Mi fa sentire idiota, perché so di non poterlo capire. No, non
capire
: capire è la parola sbagliata. Perché la poesia non si capisce,
si sente
. E io che voglio sempre capire tutto smarrisco gran parte del piacere lungo il percorso.
Perciò, se non posso raccontare quel che ho capito, fatemi almeno dire quello che ho sentito o appreso. Cosa insomma ho trattenuto e distillo con le mani come una sorsata di verità.
Eccolo qui.
Il signorino Rimbaud era veramente così terribile, scavezzacollo e canagliesco come le antologie ce lo descrivono. Dopo una full-immersion di cento pagine nelle sua biografia, ho concluso che, umanamente, non c’è nulla che possiamo salvare. Era forse dolcissimo, un pezzo di pane, con coloro che amava (poi, amava veramente qualcuno?), ma un autentico testa di cazzo con tutti gli altri. Passatemi la licenza poetica. Non sapeva stare al suo posto, tenere a freno la lingua. Non aveva uno straccio di moralità. Canzonava gli affetti. L’istruzione, puah: io sono il più intelligente di tutti, adesso toglietevi dai piedi. La religione: oh, porco ***. Era un vagabondo, adorava rotolarsi nel sudiciume, alcol, droghe, orge non ne parliamo. Il disastro era il suo elemento, il disordine la sua prima necessità. A vent’anni aveva già macinato tante esperienze estreme quante noi mortali non possiamo neanche immaginarne. A vent’anni era già vecchio, spompato, aveva già consumato tutta la sua vita. A vent’anni aveva già smesso di far poesia.
Ed è questa eccezionale, estrema, eccessiva forza vitale, portata fino alla distruzione, che si ritrova nella sua poesia. Nella prosa e nella poesia, perché ‘Una stagione all’inferno’ è un’opera ambigua, che rimane nel mezzo.
Ma non possiamo trascurare un dettaglio fondamentale dell’esperienza poetica di Rimbaud: che la sua vita
è
la sua poesia, che egli vive per far poesia e
vive così
per
fare una poesia così
. L’abisso che contempla non è fine a se stesso: è per fare della sua poesia un abisso che nell’abisso si precipita. E scopre di trovarcisi di lusso.
« Voglio essere poeta, e lavoro a rendermi veggente: lei non capisce di certo e io non saprei quasi spiegarle. Si tratta di arrivare all’ignoto attraverso la deregolamentazione di tutti i sensi. Le sofferenze sono enormi, ma bisogna essere forti, essere nati poeti, e io mi sono riconosciuto poeta. Non è davvero colpa mia »
, scrive in una lettera all’ex professore Izambard. E ancora, nella celebre ‘Lettera del Veggente’:
« Il primo studio dell’uomo che vuole essere poeta è la conoscenza di sé, intera; egli cerca la propria anima, la investiga, la saggia, la impara. […] Ma si tratta di rendere l’anima mostruosa. Immagini un uomo che semini e coltivi verruche sulla propria faccia. Dico che bisogna essere veggente, rendersi veggente. Il poeta si rende veggente attraverso una lunga, immensa e ragionata deregolamentazione di tutti i sensi. Tutte le forme di amore, di sofferenza, di follia; egli cerca se stesso, attinge in sé tutti i veleni, per conservarne solo la quintessenza ».
Lo scempio che Rimbaud fa di sé non è dunque lo smarrirsi del ragazzino stordito da Parigi. Non è semplicemente cedere alle tentazioni. Rimbaud si scaraventa volontariamente in una vita di eccessi perché pensa che solo nell’eccesso ci si possa conoscere e, una volta conosciutisi, essere poeti. Rimbaud non si mette alcun limite perché non vuole che la propria arte abbia un limite. Ed è questo a renderlo così straordinario, inimitabile, diverso da tutti. Ha il coraggio, il talento, la follia di essere costantemente sopra le righe.
« Un uomo che vuol mutilarsi è dannato sul serio, vero? Credo d’essere in inferno, dunque ci sono. È l’adempimento del catechismo. Sono schiavo del mio battesimo. Genitori, avete fatto la mia infelicità e la vostra. Povero innocente! L’inferno non può intaccare i pagani. È ancora la vita! Più tardi, le delizie della dannazione saranno più profonde. Su, presto, un delitto, che io possa precipitare nel niente secondo la legge umana »
è il suo grido guerresco in ‘Una stagione all’inferno’, il grido invasato di un bambino per cui
« La morale è la debolezza del cervello »
.
Nell’inferno creato da Rimbaud finisce coinvolto anche il poeta Verlaine, che per quel ragazzino terribile perderà la testa, la casa, la moglie, i bambini e lo seguirà in una rocambolesca fuga qui e là per l’Europa. Una storia d’amore di grandi slanci e furiosi litigi, per un pelo non finita in tragedia fisica ma sicuramente risoltasi per entrambi in catastrofe spirituale.
Giusto per darvi un’idea, ecco cosa scrive Constable Lombard, della Quarta Brigata del servizio segreto della polizia parigina, a proposito dello ‘strano ménage’:
« Poco tempo fa, M.me Verlaine è andata a cercare suo marito tentando di riportarlo indietro. Verlaine ha replicato che era troppo tardi, che non potevano tornare a vivere insieme e che in ogni caso non era più il suo uomo. ‘La vita matrimoniale mi fa orrore!’ gridò ‘Ci amiamo come due tigri!’ E, così dicendo, si era denudato il petto di fronte alla moglie: era pieno di lividi e di ferite fatte con la lama di un coltello dal suo amico Rimbaud. Queste due creature avevano l’abitudine di lottare e ferirsi l’un l’altra come animali selvatici in quanto solo così potevano avere dopo il piacere di fare di nuovo la pace. »
È così che Verlaine finisce smarrito in Rimbaud e nel suo inferno, che forse è troppo fragile per sopportare. Lo ritroviamo imbrigliato nel primo dei Deliri di ‘Una stagione all’inferno’, nei panni della Vergine Folle. Lui la Vergine Folle, Rimbaud lo Sposo Infernale. Pochi paragrafi, ma che ci danno la misura di quanto profondamente anche Rimbaud sentisse la misura della propria dismisura.
« Accanto a quel caro corpo addormentato »
dice la Vergine dello Sposo
« quante ore della notte ho vegliato, chiedendomi perché volesse tanto evadere dalla realtà. Nessun uomo formulò mai un desiderio simile. Riconoscevo, - senza temere per lui - , che poteva rappresentare un pericolo grave per la società. Ha forse qualche segreto per cambiare la vita? No, mi rispondevo, li cerca soltanto ».
Cambiare la vita, cambiare il modo di vivere, la poesia, il modo di fare poesia. Rimbaud l’incendiario. Rimbaud il più solo e il più folle dei rivoluzionari. Forse, uno dei più tristi.
« Scrivevo silenzi, notti, segnavo l’inesprimibile. Fissavo vertigini ».
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It would be impossible to get a better edition than Bulfinch Press's. The pairing of Rimbaud's fiery poetry with Mapplethorpe's photographs is the perfect marriage en enfer for the demon bridegroom.
Some literature does to a tormented soul what antibiotics does to the body. It can prescribed as a cure when someone needs it.
Rimbaud here is a broken man after a lover has left him. The reason of his descent is not clearly made but the whole poem demonstrates his tormented, confused presense and need for love.
Reading this I was amazed how he used such strange surrealist images to create a desperate, morbid atmosphere in which he is looking for satisfaction to come eventually. Rimbaud, like ano
Some literature does to a tormented soul what antibiotics does to the body. It can prescribed as a cure when someone needs it.
Rimbaud here is a broken man after a lover has left him. The reason of his descent is not clearly made but the whole poem demonstrates his tormented, confused presense and need for love.
Reading this I was amazed how he used such strange surrealist images to create a desperate, morbid atmosphere in which he is looking for satisfaction to come eventually. Rimbaud, like another favourite of mine Nabakov, mixes their senses to illustrate excesses of stimulation, which I'll always be a sucker for.
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Burguesadas ni más ni menos. Somos burguéses e intensos. Tuve la mala fortuna de leer esto al mismo tiempo que leo a Ciorán y bueno, no hay punto de comparación en la expresión acerca del dolor entre uno y otro. Rimbaud parece estar jugando al dolor, cuando Ciorán parece más un antropólogo que filósofo del mismo.
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 t
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.
Antonomasia
I know enough French to just about cope with a Jacques Tati film without subtitles and one or two of the shortest, simplest, Baudelaire verses without
I know enough French to just about cope with a Jacques Tati film without subtitles and one or two of the shortest, simplest, Baudelaire verses without translation: infinitely more is so near and yet so far.
It was the same when I discovered Catullus at 18 (still one of my few favourite poets; Baudelaire reminds me a lot of him too). I wanted a deep understanding of the originals but this was somewhat out of reach when my year hadn't even been offered GCSE Latin, though mine was good considering.
@MJ Much as I increasingly dislike foisting direct recommendations on people (having learnt that they often don't work) I think you might like Catullus and his filthy, funny and clever poetry. My favourite is still an old translation not many other people liked (Whigham), but several versions are easily previewable on Amazon now.
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updated
Apr 18, 2013 01:43PM
MJ Nicholls
You might like to poke around in that David Bellos book I read,
Is That a Fish in Your Ear?
. In short chapters it discusses all the hang-ups people ha
You might like to poke around in that David Bellos book I read,
Is That a Fish in Your Ear?
. In short chapters it discusses all the hang-ups people have about the particularity of translation, with ref to his own version of Perec, a definitively French maestro.
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updated
Apr 18, 2013 01:48PM
I know of no other translator who has captured Rimbaud's youthful voice: Donald Revell is the first. While there are several beautiful translations of A Season in Hell--Paul Schmidt and Wyatt Mason have both produced excellent versions--the voice is always that of a middle aged man, not of a boy in his late teens.
With Revell's transation, we have that voice, and it is amazing to feel the energy and the freshness of this French monolith when an innocence is maintained. Perhaps some of the success
I know of no other translator who has captured Rimbaud's youthful voice: Donald Revell is the first. While there are several beautiful translations of A Season in Hell--Paul Schmidt and Wyatt Mason have both produced excellent versions--the voice is always that of a middle aged man, not of a boy in his late teens.
With Revell's transation, we have that voice, and it is amazing to feel the energy and the freshness of this French monolith when an innocence is maintained. Perhaps some of the success comes from Revell's reading of Rimbaud, seen in the illuminating Translator's Afterword, as a poet who brings paradise with him when walking through hell.
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Es la máxima expresión de rebeldía en un tiempo donde la guerra franco-prusiana marcaba la decadencia de la burguesía francesa. Una contestación directa a la hipocresía con todo el vigor y la energía del joven poeta. Precoz en sus alcances literarios fue apreciado junto a los grandes poetas de la epoca : Verlaine, Baudelaire, Lautréamont .
Well, another Penguin 60s book way outside of my circle of interest, and far beyond my simple understanding. Reviews love this book, but for me, no thanks.
I struggle through it all (ha ha, it is a 59 page book, the left page in French, the right translated to English, which means it is only a30 page book), though the complexity of the language, the prose (ok so I detest poetry, so this book was always on a hiding to nothing) and the symbolism are completely wasted on me... but I have the good gr
Well, another Penguin 60s book way outside of my circle of interest, and far beyond my simple understanding. Reviews love this book, but for me, no thanks.
I struggle through it all (ha ha, it is a 59 page book, the left page in French, the right translated to English, which means it is only a30 page book), though the complexity of the language, the prose (ok so I detest poetry, so this book was always on a hiding to nothing) and the symbolism are completely wasted on me... but I have the good grace not to put a star rating.
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Desde que li uns excertos na Faculdade que tinha a curiosidade de ler mais de Arthur Rimbaud. Poeta simbolista que sei que influenciou os Surrealistas e percebe-se porquê. A escrita é densa, sem fio condutor, textos saídos de uma alma conturbada e inquieta.
This is the Mark Taharne translation; in his introduction he spells out the enormous difficulties involved with translating and interpreting the poetry, and advises readers to look at as many translations as possible.
I got this off the shelf yesterday to coincide with the BBC Radio 3 production in its series 'Between the Ears'. The latter is a marvellous ongoing immersion in 'soundscapes', music, song and spoken word. The R3 site and its blog say of this production:
An abridged radio reworking o
This is the Mark Taharne translation; in his introduction he spells out the enormous difficulties involved with translating and interpreting the poetry, and advises readers to look at as many translations as possible.
I got this off the shelf yesterday to coincide with the BBC Radio 3 production in its series 'Between the Ears'. The latter is a marvellous ongoing immersion in 'soundscapes', music, song and spoken word. The R3 site and its blog say of this production:
An abridged radio reworking of Rimbaud's intense masterpiece of spiritual disillusionment, narrated by Carl Prekopp with a soundscape by Bristol composer Elizabeth Purnell and poems sung by Robert Wyatt.
A Season in Hell was written between April and August 1873 in London and France, when Rimbaud was 18, and in the throes of an intense, transgressive and destructive relationship with Verlaine. It is regarded as one of the most remarkable pieces of prose poetry ever written - a mixture of autobiography and enigmatic dream sequence in which Rimbaud looks back in despair over his life as a poet. Combining lucid self-appraisal with demented vision, it moves between hyper-realism and hallucinatory surrealism, blending sounds, colours, odours and intensely visual images. The 25 pages of A Season in Hell, here cut to a third of its length, are seen as both a testimony to and a tortured recantation of Rimbaud's poetic credo, the 'disordering of all the senses'.
Elizabeth Purnell's soundtrack for the work includes composed music, field recordings and processed sound in a raw response to the words; she set the poems specifically for Wyatt, whose voice in its high, delicate register suggests a beyond-the-grave alter-ego to the young Rimbaud.
From Between the Ears Blog
A Season in Hell is an abridged radio reworking of French poet Arthur Rimbaud's intense masterpiece of spiritual disillusionment, narrated by Carl Prekopp with a soundscape by Bristol composer Elizabeth Purnell and poems sung by Robert Wyatt. The programme will be broadcast in Between the Ears on Saturday 14 November at 9.45pm. Here, producer Sara Davies gives a fascinating account of the journey from the idea of turning the work into radio, through various artistic twists and turns, to the version listeners will hear on Saturday.
About thirty years ago I was in a bar in a small Mexican town where a French actor gave a thoroughly eccentric performance of some of Rimbaud's poetry to a musical accompaniment. He didn't include the prose poem A Season in Hell, probably because it defied even his eccentricity and powers of performance. Later, it seemed to me that radio was the ideal place to try to find expression for its insistent, wild, knowing autobiographical voice and emotional complexity.
elizabeth_purnell.gifI asked the composer Elizabeth (Liz) Purnell to read it, and she leapt at the chance to respond to such an extraordinary piece of writing. I knew I'd have to make fierce cuts to fit it into half an hour, and had imagined I'd drop the songs which appear about two thirds of the way through the piece, as they seemed to me to be the most problematic elements in a pretty knotty piece of writing.
But when we talked about it, Liz argued convincingly for at least some of them to be left in, and I realised when she talked about wanting to set them for Robert Wyatt that she was absolutely right. We decided on the three we both felt would work best, based on instinct rather than any literary judgement; literary judgements about the poem itself are so disparate and interpretations so varied that it was liberating not to have any orthodoxy to follow. Liz says she wanted the songs to suggest a kind of alter-ego Rimbaud, speaking from beyond the grave, and that she asked Wyatt to sing them because of his sense of spontaneity, his interest in poetry and the wonderful delicate nature of his voice in the high register.
Robert_Wyatt.jpgShe went to record them at his house in Lincolnshire, where she set up a microphone in his front room, ignored the background roar of passing lorries and played him the backing track on her laptop as he sang. Robert was keen to sing the songs mainly in the original French - something I hadn't envisaged, but was charmed when Liz brought the recordings back. Liz knew she was pushing him to the top of his register, but he went for it, and with lots of fag breaks and cups of tea, they got the recordings done over an afternoon and the following morning. One of the most enjoyable recording sessions she's ever done, she says - and not a lorry to be heard in the background.
Contains language that might cause offence.
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I keep coming back to this book, and I don't know why. When ever you have a translation of a poem (because I sadly do not speak French) you lose some of the rhyme and meaning. When you read A Season in Hell, at times this is abundantly clear, that it's a translation. What remains though is the agony, you have to think about what this book meant for the time, and meant now. What is apparent, through all translations and such, is that Rimbaud poured himself into this, and it is raw and real and co
I keep coming back to this book, and I don't know why. When ever you have a translation of a poem (because I sadly do not speak French) you lose some of the rhyme and meaning. When you read A Season in Hell, at times this is abundantly clear, that it's a translation. What remains though is the agony, you have to think about what this book meant for the time, and meant now. What is apparent, through all translations and such, is that Rimbaud poured himself into this, and it is raw and real and completely uncensored. Perhaps this is why this book stands out to me, it is that there is nothing missing, there are no excuses, no cover ups. This is a raw and complete book or human agony and suffering. Rimbaud, though his career was brief, has managed to accomplish what all writers strive to do, write something that contains them, contains bits of their soul. When reading this book, these poems, you have the feeling that you are looking directly into Arthur Rimbaud's eyes, seeing him for what he was. It's shocking. It's an experience. It's a must read.
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Este es uno de los libros más alucinantes que he leído en mi vida. Ha sido muy duro traducirlo, pero con Laura Rosal hemos tratado de hacer una bonita versión, a nuestra manera. Las ilustraciones de Laura San Román y Laia Arqueros terminan de cerrar un libro que si ya era especial para nosotras ahora lo es aún mas. Queremos mucho a Arthur Rimbaud y esperamos que se haya sentido bien tratado.
Saw
Eddie and the Cruisers
for the first time in
years
today and had forgotten that it was inspired by Rimbaud and "A Season in Hell." Thought I would finally give it a read.
What do I even plan to say about Arthur Rimbaud? How do I even begin to approach dissecting his work?
I, like Henry Miller, am often moved by the intangible threads of connection between myself and whatever I'm reading. Perhaps it is the universal quality of the creative process, that destruction of the self followed by an eventual rebirth, or refailing as I like to think of it, that connects us creative types in a quaint little place that may as well be Hell. And when your mascot is an enfant t
What do I even plan to say about Arthur Rimbaud? How do I even begin to approach dissecting his work?
I, like Henry Miller, am often moved by the intangible threads of connection between myself and whatever I'm reading. Perhaps it is the universal quality of the creative process, that destruction of the self followed by an eventual rebirth, or refailing as I like to think of it, that connects us creative types in a quaint little place that may as well be Hell. And when your mascot is an enfant terrible who escapes into no man's land at the height of his creativity (after his work is received horribly by literary critics due to his sexual activities and not actual merit; don't quote me on this though, there's a lot of hearsay in Rimbaud's life), you begin to make those romantic analogies, you begin to convince yourself of these wild stories about Rimbaud that you insist are absolutely true. You become, essentially, a victim of your own creativity.
The Rimbaud that I imagined after reading his life story was not the Rimbaud I met in prose. Rough, crude, and exceedingly bitter at times. The complete opposite of this romantic escapade that has been imagined of his life. And it was in Paul Schmidt's translation that I had difficulty connecting with
A Season in Hell
initially. That strangely adolescent voice which feels at times too young to be describing a mature death in the form of a relationship. But this is exactly what Rimbaud was - 18 upon writing
A Season in Hell
, with wounds still freshly bleeding after fellow poet Paul Verlaine was out of his life.
I want to say that
A Season in Hell
is an incredible personal work, but I realize that this says nothing. It is a non-description; every piece of writing from a writer is personal, even if it has nothing to do with their lives. If not conscious, then on some subconscious level. It is personal in that it properly evokes the feelings of a broken relationship without even addressing the relationship at hand. And it is personal in that it expresses the different vying voices of a creative type, often at odds with one another and entirely overwhelming. It is about a human being going through hell to become aware of the possibilities that exist in life.
What is considered highly personal is the section "The Infernal Spouse," in which it is often postulated that the narrator is Verlaine while the infernal bridegroom is Rimbaud - this has the unfortunate consequence of negating Rimbaud's bitterness concerning Verlaine, but perhaps what I read was hearsay. In no way do I question that the infernal bridegroom is Rimbaud, it sounds far too much like the personality I have read of him. But I wonder if the narrator describing this bridegroom is also Rimbaud.
Writers often joke about how they are married to their work, so much of their selves does it take up. Jack Kerouac once said that he was married to his novels and that his short stories were his children. But how much of a stretch is it to be married to that creative impulse within you? Rimbaud longed to reach a state where he had "disordered" his senses in order to create. "Every form of love, of suffering, of madness; he [the poet] searches himself, he consumes all the poisons in him, and keeps only their quintessences . . . For he arrives at the unknown! Because he has cultivated his own soul – which was rich to begin with – more than any other man," Rimbaud said once in a letter to friend Paul Demeny.
I think it's interesting that Rimbaud plays with Verlaine's idea of the "accursed poet" as well. It was what we refer to as a "tortured artist" these days. The idea that being a genius was a curse, something that separated you from society in every tragic way conceivable, as the artist became familiar with self-destructive tendencies. I'm not sure if it's the translation, but there is something very mocking in Rimbaud's treatment of the "accursed poet" of a narrator: ". . . if other people can make it to twenty, I guess I can too . . ." The relationship was transformational for Rimbaud, certainly. But perhaps not in the way most people may imagine. "I have one great advantage," Rimbaud declares, "I can laugh at past love affairs that were nothing but lies, and brand with shame all such deceitful relationships - I went through the same hell women do, over there - and I will be free to
possess the truth in a single body and a single soul.
" Perhaps all these Rimbauds can coalesce into one coherent being.
As a symbolist, Rimbaud's intention was to evoke the feeling of hell, or the end of a relationship, without directly talking about it. The most damaging aspects of life stem from the fact that we feel happiness. That we can be in love. "I saw that everyone in the world is doomed to happiness," Rimbaud states in "Alchemy of Words." What goes up must come down. When that happiness is taken away from us, it is a pain unlike any other. And when love is ripped away from us or dissipates amidst a sea of strangers, it is akin to strangling. To being trapped in hell, as Rimbaud burns in agony. Love is hell, I guess. Are we doomed to happiness because it is seen as the highest attainable state or because rather than overcome the sadness in our lives, we simply remember the events less and less as time passes on? I could spend days pondering mere sentences within
A Season in Hell
.
This symbolist nature is seen more prominently when Rimbaud insists upon ascribing colors to vowels, similar to synesthesia: "A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green. I made rules for the shape and movement of every consonant, and I flattered myself that I had invented, with rhythms from within me, a poetic language that all the senses, sooner or later, could understand. And I would be its translator." Henry Miller insisted that no one has been able to translate Rimbaud correctly, but perhaps this lies in the fact that Rimbaud recreated language for his own use.
A Season in Hell
is the oddest book I believe I've ever read. I think one can see that in that this is my most disjointed post. But I'm still not sure what to make of Rimbaud's work, other than the fact that I can't stop turning it around in my mind. I wonder if I'm too immature for this 18 year old's work. But I too have suffered in relationships, in trying to connect the disjointed parts of myself into a coherent whole that can write without being distracted by ten-thousand other thoughts.
I feel as though I've connected with Rimbaud in ways I don't even really understand. There will certainly be more writing on Rimbaud in my future.
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Io ormai sono perdutamente innamorata di Rimbaud, è un piccolo genio e mi struggo sempre di dolore all'idea che non conoscerò mai uno come lui. Dico sul serio. Lo amo troppo, e Una stagione all'inferno ha contribuito sicuramente ad aumentare la mia crush già di per sé spaventosa. L'ho adorato tantissimo, soprattutto in alcuni punti (e certe citazioni sono la meraviglia). Certamente leggerò tutti gli altri suoi lavori.
I shall waste no words describing or criticizing the poem itself; its place as one of the greatest poems of all time is secure, and its meaning, purpose, and poetic techniques are well understood and appreciated. However, there is a problem: most previous translations from the original French have "elevated" the text to that which might be written by a middle-aged or older scholar (while, I do admit, preserving its meaning). All fans know that Rimbaud wrote this, his last poem, when he was 19 ye
I shall waste no words describing or criticizing the poem itself; its place as one of the greatest poems of all time is secure, and its meaning, purpose, and poetic techniques are well understood and appreciated. However, there is a problem: most previous translations from the original French have "elevated" the text to that which might be written by a middle-aged or older scholar (while, I do admit, preserving its meaning). All fans know that Rimbaud wrote this, his last poem, when he was 19 years old (1873). Donald Revell restores the original linguistic exuberance, flamboyance, and fun to the poem. Although extremely serious in content,
A Season in Hell
is not at all a morbid work! It needs youthful language to work its magic. Revell's award-winning translation does just that.
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Terrific translation of a powerful and poignant work. The original French is on the left-hand pages while the English translation is on the right. Terrific photography by the controversial Robert Mapplethorpe (not to worry: this volume does not contain any adult photos).
"Me convertí en una opera fabulosa, vi que todos los seres tienen una fatalidad de dicha, la acción no es la vida, sino una manera de estropear a cualquier fuerza, un enervamiento. La moral es una flaqueza del cerebro." Maravilloso de principio a fin.
En tid i helvetet är den enda bok som Rimbaud själv gav ut – och den är skriven mitt i ett destruktivt förhållande men den äldre poeten Paul Verlaine. Det är en diktsamling som bäst kan beskrivas med ångest och smärta... helt enkelt en resa genom helvetet.
Jag var tvungen att erkänna för mig själv att poesi är till större del inte för mig. Rimbaud tillhör tyvärr till större del den sorts poesi. Det är inte det att jag inte sög upp varenda ord. För det gjorde jag. Rimbaud har skrivit en del av mi
En tid i helvetet är den enda bok som Rimbaud själv gav ut – och den är skriven mitt i ett destruktivt förhållande men den äldre poeten Paul Verlaine. Det är en diktsamling som bäst kan beskrivas med ångest och smärta... helt enkelt en resa genom helvetet.
Jag var tvungen att erkänna för mig själv att poesi är till större del inte för mig. Rimbaud tillhör tyvärr till större del den sorts poesi. Det är inte det att jag inte sög upp varenda ord. För det gjorde jag. Rimbaud har skrivit en del av mina favoriter. Men jag har svårt för hans sätt att bygga upp sina dikter – jag är mer för poesi som känns som en poetisk berättelse. Så, bitar av diktsamling var underbar men i helhet hade jag svårt att verkligen njuta av den.
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Deslabazado y errrático, "Una Temporada en el Infierno" en ningún momento llegó a transmitirme. Todo encaja, sin embargo, cuando averiguas que su ininteligibilidad es consecuencia de los colocones que debió pillarse su autor durante la época en la que fue escrito. Cuando Rimbaud parece que va a conectar, se evade, se muestra esquivo, da la espalda y al instante desaparece dejando tras de sí una polvareda con aroma a opio. Puede que esa sea la propia temporada en el infierno, una especie de casti
Deslabazado y errrático, "Una Temporada en el Infierno" en ningún momento llegó a transmitirme. Todo encaja, sin embargo, cuando averiguas que su ininteligibilidad es consecuencia de los colocones que debió pillarse su autor durante la época en la que fue escrito. Cuando Rimbaud parece que va a conectar, se evade, se muestra esquivo, da la espalda y al instante desaparece dejando tras de sí una polvareda con aroma a opio. Puede que esa sea la propia temporada en el infierno, una especie de castigo que el autor, como demiurgo supremo, arroja al lector, en forma de indéxico autoreferencial al propio acto de leer. De ser así, objetivo cumplido, señor Rimbaud: este librito termina por cabrear al más paciente de los santos.
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El título es bastante descriptivo. La historia demasiado intensa y cruda.
Citas favoritas:
- Una noche senté a la belleza en mis rodillas. Y la encontré amarga. Y la injurié.
- ¿A quien alquilarme? ¿Qué bestia hay que adorar? ¿Qué santa imagen atacamos? ¿Qué corazones romperé? ¿Qué mentira debo sostener? ¿Entre qué sangre caminar?
- La vida es la farsa en la que todos figuramos.
- Satán, farsante, tú quieres disolverme con tus hechizos ¡Yo reclamo un golpe de tridente, una gota de fuego!
Very short poem about the hell we have in ourselves. im sure it translates well in french but i couldnt understand a lof of what the poem was about to be honest.
"Y le hacía prometer que no me abandonaría. Veinte veces me hizo esa promesa de amante. Era tan frívolo como yo cuando le decía: "Te comprendo".
Ah, jamás he tenido celos de él. Creo que no ha de abandonarme. ¿Qué haría? No conoce a nadie, jamás trabajará. Quiere vivir sonámbulo. ¿Bastarían su bondad y su caridad para otorgarle derechos en el mundo real? Por momentos, olvido la miseria en que he caído: él me tornará fuerte, viajaremos, cazaremos en los desiertos, dormiremos sobre el empedrado d
"Y le hacía prometer que no me abandonaría. Veinte veces me hizo esa promesa de amante. Era tan frívolo como yo cuando le decía: "Te comprendo".
Ah, jamás he tenido celos de él. Creo que no ha de abandonarme. ¿Qué haría? No conoce a nadie, jamás trabajará. Quiere vivir sonámbulo. ¿Bastarían su bondad y su caridad para otorgarle derechos en el mundo real? Por momentos, olvido la miseria en que he caído: él me tornará fuerte, viajaremos, cazaremos en los desiertos, dormiremos sobre el empedrado de ciudades desconocidas, sin cuidados, sin penas. O yo me despertaré, y las leyes y, las costumbres habrán cambiado"
French poet and adventurer, who stopped writing verse at the age of 21, and became after his early death an inextricable myth in French gay life. Rimbaud's poetry, partially written in free verse, is characterized by dramatic and imaginative vision. "I say that one must be a visionary - that one must make oneself a VISIONARY." His works are among the most original in the Symbolist movement. Rimbau
French poet and adventurer, who stopped writing verse at the age of 21, and became after his early death an inextricable myth in French gay life. Rimbaud's poetry, partially written in free verse, is characterized by dramatic and imaginative vision. "I say that one must be a visionary - that one must make oneself a VISIONARY." His works are among the most original in the Symbolist movement. Rimbaud's best-known work, LE BÂTEAU IVRE (The Drunken Boat), appeared in 1871. In the poem, he sent a toy boat on a journey, an allegory for a spiritual quest.
It is found again.
What? Eternity.
It is the sea
Gone with the sun.
(from 'L'Éternite', 1872)
Arthur Rimbaud was born in Charleville, France, as the son of Fréderic Rimbaud, a career soldier, and Marie-Catherine-Vitale Cuif, an unsentimental matriarch. Rimbaud's father left the family, and from the age of six, young Arthur was raised by his strictly religious mother. Rimbaud was educated in a provincial school until the age of fifteen. He was an outstanding student but his behavior was considered provocative. After publishing his first poem, in 1870, at the age of 16, Rimbaud wandered through northern France and Belgium, and was returned to his home in Paris by police.
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“Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.”
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“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.”
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