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A Season In Hell

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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. Fowlie, Wallace (1966), Rimbaud: Complete Works, Selected Letters, University Of Chicago Press, ISBN 978-0226719733 Bernard Mathieu describes A Season in Hell as "a terribly enigmatic poem", and a "brilliantly near-hysterical quarrel between the poet and his 'other'." [1] :p.1 He identifies two voices at work in the surreal narrative: "the two separate parts of Rimbaud's schizoid personality—the 'I' who is a seer/poet and the 'I' who is the incredibly hard-nosed widow Rimbaud's peasant son. One voice is wildly in love with the miracle of light and childhood, the other finds all these literary shenanigans rather damnable and 'idiotic'." [1] :pp.1–2 Eternal art will have its function, since poets are citizens. Poetry will no longer take its rhythm from action: it will be ahead of it! Among them, Henry Miller was important in introducing Rimbaud to the United States in the 1960s. [7] He published an English translation of the book and wrote an extended essay on Rimbaud and A Season in Hell titled The Time of the Assassins. It was published by James Laughlin's New Directions, the first American publisher of Rimbaud's Illuminations.

Tedium’s no longer my love. Rage, debaucheries, madness, all of whose joys and disasters I know – my whole burden’s laid down. Let us appreciate without dizziness the extent of my innocence. Autumn already! – But why regret an eternal sun, if we are engaged in discovering the divine light – far from races that die with the seasons. For I is another. If the brass wakes the trumpet, it’s not its fault. That’s obvious to me: I witness the unfolding of my own thought: I watch it, I hear it: I make a stroke with the bow: the symphony begins in the depths, or springs with a bound onto the stage. I loved the wilds, scorched orchards; faded shops, lukewarm drinks. I would drag myself through stinking alleys, and, eyes closed, offer myself to the sun, god of fire.I’m a widow...– I was a widow ... – why yes, I was very respectable once, I was not born to be a skeleton! ... – He was almost a child...His mysterious sensitivities seduced me. I forgot all my human tasks to follow him. What a life! The true life is absent. We are not in this world. I go where he goes, I have to. And often he’s angry with me, me, poor soul. The Demon! – He’s a Demon you know, he’s not a man. 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. A Season in Hell ( French: Une Saison en Enfer) is an extended poem in prose written and published in 1873 by French writer Arthur Rimbaud. It is the only work that was published by Rimbaud himself. The book had a considerable influence on later artists and poets, including the Surrealists. It’s the vision of numbers. We advance towards the Spirit. It’s quite certain: it’s oracular, what I say. I know, and unaware how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather be mute.

According to some sources, [ who?] Rimbaud's first stay in London in September 1872 converted him from an imbiber of absinthe to a smoker of opium, and drinker of gin and beer. According to biographer Graham Robb, this began "as an attempt to explain why some of his [Rimbaud's] poems are so hard to understand, especially when sober". [3] The poem was by Rimbaud himself dated April through August 1873, but these are dates of completion. He finished the work in a farmhouse in Roche, Ardennes. Ah, that life of my childhood, the highway in all weathers, supernaturally sober, more disinterested than the finest of beggars, proud of having neither country nor friends, how foolish it was. – And only now do I realise!Delirium II: Alchemy of Words ( Délires II: Alchimie du verbe) – the narrator then steps in and explains his own false hopes and broken dreams. This section is divided more clearly and contains many sections in verse (most of which are individual poems from the ensemble later called " Derniers vers" or " Vers nouveaux et chansons", albeit with significant variations). Here Rimbaud continues to develop his theory of poetry that began with his " Lettres du Voyant" ("Letters of the Seer"), but ultimately considers the whole endeavour as a failure. [5] I am slave to the infernal Spouse, he who ruined the foolish virgins. It’s indeed that very same demon. It’s no spectre, it’s no phantom. But I who have lost my wisdom, who am damned and dead to the world – they won’t kill me! – How can I describe him to you! I can’t speak any more. I am in mourning, I weep, I fear. A little coolness, Lord, if you please, if you graciously please! Ce texte est magique, ensorcelé, maudit, magnifique, pervers, exquis de délicatesse et de naïveté, envoûtant du pêché d’innocence et du crime de simplicité d’esprit. Il est un délire sans fin mais sans commencement non plus sur l’impossibilité dans laquelle Rimbaud se trouvait de simplement se poser dans une des boîtes cubiques qui sont sensées être l’habitat de chacun de nous dans une société moderne. Et qu’aurait-il souffert s’il avait connu les boîtes cubiques de nos temps modernes avec Internet, Netflix and Google intégrés et branchés directement sur nos cerveaux par WIFI mental expérimental et connecté pour toujours et irréversible ? You’re a hyena still...’ the demon cries who crowned me with such delightful poppies. ‘Win death with all your appetites; your egotism, all the deadly sins.’ Fowlie, Wallace. Rimbaud: Complete Works, Selected Letters. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966.

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