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WD_358/ 2007
(  Satoshi Kinoshita )
| Series: | Works on paper: Drawings 4 | | Medium: | oilstick on paper | | Size (inches): | 25.6 x 17.7 | | Size (mm): | 650 x 450 | | Catalog #: | WD_0358 | | Description: | Signed, date and copyright in pencil on the reverse.
Everything seen...
the vision gleams in every air
Everything had...
The far sound of cities in the evening.
In sunlight, and always.
Everything known...
O Tulmult! O Visions! These are the stops of life.
Departure in affection, and shining sounds.
- Rimbaud DEPARTURE
-www.geocities.com/Athens/8161/rimbaud.html
Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) -
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, which included in France such poets as Stéphane Mallarme and Paul Paul Verlaine, and playwrights as Maurice Maeterlinck. 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, in the northern Ardennes region of France, as the son of Fréderic Rimbaud, a career soldier, who had served in Algria, 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 her 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.
In 1871 he met poet Paul Verlaine (1844-1896), whose collection of poems, Les Amies (1867) had been banned by a court. Verlaine was an alcoholic who had a taste had a taste for absinthe. He left his family - his young wife, Mathilde Mauté, was expecting a baby - and fled with the teenaged Rimbaud to London in 1872 to live a Bohemian life. Most of the time they lived in poverty and abused drink and drugs. Rimbaud accepted uncleaniness, including body lice, but Verlaine was horrified by the English cuisine, especially "the abominable oxtail soup": "Fie on such a horror! A man's sock with a rotten clitoris floating in it." Their relationship ended next year in Brussels, when Rimbaud tried to break off the relationship. Verlaine, drunk and desolate, shot Rimbaud in the wrist with a 7mm pistol after a quarrel. Verlaine was tried for attempted murder and sent to Brussels' Amigo Detention Center. Rimbaud returned to the family farm in Roche, where he finished his UNE SAISON EN ENFER (A Season in Hell).
Rimbaud's collection of poetry and prose pieces, A Season in Hell, appeared in 1873. "One evening, I sat Beauty in my lap. - And I found her bitter. - And I cursed her." Rimbaud gave some copies of the book to his friends - one was sent to P. Verlaine at the Petits Carmes Prison - but the spiritual autobiography did not receive any reviews. After completing in England ILLUMINATIONS, a collection of prose poems, Rimbaud gave up literature and burned his manuscripts. In 1901 the first edition of A Season in Hell was found at the printers' in its original packing. Eventually the work became a touchstone for anguished poets, artists, and lovers. In 1874 Rimbaud spent some time in London with Germain Nouveau, a young poet, who had only one testicle. Nouveau member of the Zutistes circle - a group of poets who wrote verses in a notebook, the Zutiste Album. At the British Library Rimbaud was not allowed to read Marquis de Sade's books because he was under twenty-one. Verlaine, whom Rimbaud saw last time in 1875, and with whom he had a violent quarrel, published a selection of Rimbaud's poems and wrote about him in LES POÈTES MAUDITS (1884).
In 1875-76 Rimbaud learned several languages, English, German, Spanish, Italian, Russian, Arabic and Greek, and started his vagabond life again. He worked a teacher in Germany, unloaded cargo in Marseilles, enlisted in the Netherlands army but deserted in Sumatra. In 1876 Rimbaud robbed a cabman in Vienna. In the last dozen years of his life, Rimbaud worked in the import-export field for series of French employers dealing everything from porcelain to weaponry - possibly he was a slave dealer.
Rimbaud arrived in 1880 in Aden after short sojourns in Java and Cyprus. Rimbaud made business travels in modern-day Yemen, Ethiopia, and Egypt, and walked occasionally hundreds of miles at the head of trading caravans through dangerous lands. He was the first European to penetrate into the country of Ogadain. His expertise and learning of the language, religion, and culture of local peoples was acknowledged when the French Geographical Society deemed his commercial and geographical report on East Africa worthy of publication.
In 1886 Verlaine published Rimbaud's book of poems, Illuminations. It revealed Rimbaud's longing for spiritual values and reestablished his reputation as a major poet. A rumor started to spread in September 1888 that Rimbaud was dead and next year Le Décadent published as a joke a list of donors to the statue of Rimbaud. In February 1891 Rimbaud felt pain in his left knee, and went to Marseilles to see a doctor. The leg had to be amputated because of enormous, cancerous swelling. Rimbaud died in Marseilles on November 10, 1891, and was buried in Charleville in strict family intimacy. Isabelle, Rimbaud's sister, had never known till after her brother's death, that he had been a poet. Rimbaud's African servant boy, Djami Wadaï, was one of his major heirs apart from his family.
Tête de Faune
Dans la feuillée, écrin vert taché d'or,
Dans la feuillée incertaine et fleurie
De splendides fleurs où le baiser dort,
Vif et crevant l'exquise broderie,
Un faune égaré montre ses deux yeux
Et mord les fleurs rouges de ses dents blanches.
Brunie et sanglante ainsi qu'un vin vieux,
Sa lévre éclate en rires sous les branches.
Et quand il a fui - tel qu'un écureuil, -
Son rire tremble encore à chaque feuille,
Et l'on voit épeuré par un bouvreuil
Le Baiser d'or du Bois, qui se recueille.
For further reading: La Vie de Rimbaud et de son oeuvre by Marcel Coulon (1929); Flagrant délit by André Breton (1949); Le Mythe de Rimbaud by René Etiemble (1954); The Time of the Assassin by Henry Miller (1954); Rimbaud by Cecil Hackett (1957); Arthur Rimbaud by Enid Starkie (1962); Rimbaud vu par Verlaine by Henri Peyre (1975); Season in Hell by John Le Carre (1979); Rimbaud: a Critical Introduction by Cecil Hackett (1981); Rimbaud by Pierre Petitfils (1982); Arthur Rimbaud: portraits, dessins, manuscrits, ed. by Hélène Dufour and André Guyaux (1991); Delirium by Jeremy Reed (1991); La vie d' Arthur Rimbaud by Jean Bourgignon and Charles Houin (1991); Arthur Rimbaud by Benjamin Ivry (1998); Somebody Else: Rimbaud in Africa 1880-1891 by Charles Nicholl (1999); Arthur Rimbaud by Jean Luc Steinmetz (published 2000); Arthur Rimbaud by Jean-Jacques Lefrère (2001) - Note: The rock star Jim Morrison was influenced by Rimbaud's poems, and by the 1980s punk rockers, such as Patti Smith and Tom Verlaine, were inspired by the poet's sexual unconventionality and obscenity - Rimbaud Museum: Le Vieux Moulin, quai Arthur Rimbaud, F-08000 Charleville-Mézières, Ardennes - Film: Total Eclipse (1995), a hysterical dramatization of the famous literary conjunction, the destructive love affair of Verlaine and Rimbaud. Directed by Agnieszka Holland, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, David Thewlis - Suom.: Suomeksi Rimbaudilta on julkaistu mm. runoja teoksessa Tuhat laulujen vuotta, toim. Aale Tynni (1974), sekä Säteilevät kuvat ja Kausi helvetissä, Pekka Parkkisen ja Jaakko Ahokkaan kääntäminä 1983.
-www.kirjasto.sci.fi/rimbaud.htm
The Visionary Letter -
A Paul Demeny
à Douai
Charleville, 15 mai 1871.
English Version
(thanks to Kylie Hobbs)
I've decided to give you an hour of new literature. I begin now with a psalm of the times:
["Chant de Guerre parisien"]
Here is some prose on the future of poetry:-all ancient poetry led up to the Greek, harmonious Life. - From Greece down to the romantic movement - Middle Ages- there are writers and versifiers. From Ennius to Theroldus, from Theroldus to Casimir Delavigne, everything is rhymed prose, a game, the depravity and glory of innumerable idiot generations: Racine is the pure, the strong, the great. If anyone had breathed upon his rhymes, mixed up his hemistichs, the Divine Fool would have been as unknown today as the first author of Origins to come along. - After Racine the game goes stale. It has lasted two thousand years.
No joking, no paradox. My reason gives me more certitiude on this subject than a Jeune-France poet would ever have had of anger. Besides, the new are free to execrate their ancestors: we are on our own ground, and we have the time.
No one has ever rightly judged romanticism. Who would have judged it? The Critics?? The Romantics, who prove so completely that song is so infrequently a work, that is, which is thought sung and understood by the singer?
For the "I" is someone else. That much is clear to me: I am a spectator at the blossoming of my own thought: I look at it and listen to it: I make a sweep with the bow and down in the depths the symphony begins to stir or comes in one leap upon the stage.
If the old fools had not found just the false signification of the Ego, we wouldn't have to be sweeping up these millions of skeletons which over an infinite time have been piling up the products of their one-eyed intelligence and declaring themselves the authors!
In Greece, as I have said, verse and lyre set the rhythms of Action. Afterward, music and rhyme are games, pastimes. The study of this past delights the curious: several are overjoyed to bring these antiquities back to life: - let them have it. Universal intelligence has always dropped its ideas naturally; men gather up a share of these fruits of the mind: people acted according to, and wrote books about, them: that was they way the world went, man not working upon himself, not being yet awakened or not in the fullness of the great dream. Pen pushers, writers - but author, the creator, the poet, this man has never existed.
The proper study of a man who wants to be a poet is himself, totally; he seeks his own soul, inspects it, tries it, learns it.
As soon as he knows it he should cultivate it. That seems simple: in every mind there takes place a natural development; so many egoists proclaim that they are authors; there are many other who attribute their intellectual progress to themselves! - But it is a matter of making our soul monstrous: like the baby-snatchers, indeed! Imagine a man grafting and cultivating warts on the skin of his own face.
I say that we must be voyant, make ourselves voyant.
The poet makes himself voyant by a long, immense, and calculated derailment of all the senses. All the forms of love ad suffering and madness; he seeks himself and exhausts in himself all the poisons, keeping only the quitessences. Unspeakable torture, in which he needs all the faith, all the superhuman strength, by which be becomes the great invalid, the great criminal, the great pariah, above all others - and the supreme Savant! - For he attains the unknown! Since he has cultivated his soul, which was rich to start with, more than anyone else! He reaches the unknown, and if, finally overwhelmed, he turns out to lose the meaning of his visions, at least he has seen them! Let him die in his surge through things unheard of and beyond naming: other horrible workers will come after him and begin at the horizons where he sank back!
-To be continued in six minutes-
I insert here a second psalm; it is not part of the argument: kindly lend a tolerant ear, - and all will be delighted. -I have the bow in hand and begin:
["Mes petites amoureuses"]
There you are. And please note that, if I didn't fear making you pay put more than sixty centimes in postage, - I, poor pauper who for seven months haven't had a red cent! - I would send you in addition my Amants de Paris, a hundred hexameters, Sir, and my Mort de Paris, two hundred hexameters!
-I go on:
So the poet is truly the fire-stealer.
He is responsible for humanity, even for the animals; he will have to invent something that can be touched, felt, heard; if what he brings back from out there has a form, he gives the form; if it is formless, he gives it non-form. To find a language; - Besides, every word being an idea, the time of a universal language will come. It takes an Academician, deader than a fossil, to bring a dictionary of any language whatsoever to a conclusion. There are weak characters who, if they just started to think about the first letter of the alphabet, would rapidly go stark mad!
This language will be of the would, for the soul, summing up everything, perfumes, sounds, colors, thought seizing upon thought and drawing it on. The poet would define the quantity of unknown awakening in his time in the universal soul; he would give more - than the statement of thought, and than his estimate of his progress toward Progress. The extra-normal becoming the norm, and being absorbed by all, he would really be a multiplier of progress.
This future will be materialist, as you see. -Always full of Number and Harmony, these poems will be made to last. -Fundamentally, this will still be something of Greek poetry.
Eternal art would have its civic role, since poets are citizens. Poetry will no linger just set action to rhythms; it will, itself, take the lead.
These poets will come to be! And when the infinite servitude of woman shall be broken, when she lives through and of herself, man, - up to now abominable, - having given her freedom, she will herself will be a poet also. Woman will find the unknown! Will her universe of ideas be different from ours? - She will find curious things, plumbless, repulsive, delightful; we shall take them and take them in.
Meanwhile, let us ask the poet for something new, - ideas and forms. The merely clever would think very soon they had met the requirement:- that's not what I mean.
The first romantics were voyant without really knowing it: The culture of their souls began by chance: like locomotives abandoned with steam up, which run a while by themselves. - Lamartine is sometimes a voyant, but strangled by his old form. Hugo, too much the brain, really has vision in his latest volumes: Les Miserables is a true poem. I have the Chatiments before me; Stella just about shows how much Hugo could see. Too much Belmontet and Lamennais, too many Jehovahs and columns, monstrosities old and dead.
Musset is execrable fourteen times over for us, a generation which suffers and is caught up by vision, - and whom his angelic indolence has insulted! Oh! the flat tales and proverb-plays! Oh, the Nuits! Oh, Rolla, oh, Namouna, oh, the Coupe! All of it is French, that is, hateful in the ultimate degree; French, not Parisian! One more product of that odious genius which inspired Rabelais, Voltaire, Jean La Fontaine, as pointed out in M. Taine's commentary! Springlike, the wit of Musset? Charming, his love? There you have it, painting done in enamel, solid poetry!
French poetry will be enjoyed for a long time, but only in France. Every grocer's clerk is up to unwinding a Rollaesque apostrophe, every seminarist confides hid five hundred rimes to his secret notebook. At fifteen, these bursts of passion put the young heat; at sixteen they are already satisfied to recite them from the heart; at eighteen, even seventeen, every schoolboy with the means plays Rolla, writes a Rolla! Perhaps some still die of it. Musset never managed to do anything: there were visions behind the gauze of the curtains: he shut his eyes. Frenchmen, strutters, the beautiful corpse, dragged from the pub to the schoolroom desk, is dead, and, from here on, let's not trouble ourselves to waken him with our abominations!
The second generation of romantics are very voyant: Theophile Gautier, Leconte de Lisle, Theodore de Banville. But inspecting the invisible, and hearing what was never heard being something else then restoring the spirit of things dead, Baudelaire is the first voyant, the king of poets, a true God. But he lived among too many artists; and his boasted form is shoddy. Inventing the unknown calls for new forms.
Broken in to the old forms,- among the innocents, A. Renaud, - he did his Rolla: - L. Grandet, - did his Rolla; - the Gauls and the Mussets, G. Lafenestre, Coran, Cl. Popelin, Soulary, L. Salles; the schoolboys, Marc. Aicard, Theuriet; the dead and the imbeciles, Autran, Barbier, L. Pichat, Lemoyne, the Deschamps, the Des Essarts; the journalists, L. Cladel, Robert Luzarches, X. de Ricard; the fantasists, C. Mendes; the bohemians; the women; the talents, Leon Dierx and Sully-Prudhomme, Coppee; the new school, called Parnassian, has two voyants, Albert Merat and Paul Verlaine, a true poet. - There you are.
Thus I work at making myself Voyant. And let us finish with a pious song.
["Accroupissements"]
You would be execrable not to reply: quick, for in a week I shall be in Paris, perhaps.
Farewell,
A. Rimbaud
French Version:
J'ai résolu de vous donner une heure de littérature nouvelle; je commence de suite par un psaume d'actualité:
(poem "Parisian War Cry"/"Chant de guerre Parisien")
- Voici de la prose sur l'avenir de la poésie
Toute poésie antique aboutit à la poésie grecque; Vie harmonieuse. - De la Grèce au mouvement romantique, - moyen âge, il y a des lettrés, des versificateurs. D'Ennius à Théroldus, de Théroldus à Casimir Delavigne, tout est prose rimée, un jeu, avachissement et gloire d'innombrables générations idiotes: Racine est le pur, le fort, le grand. - On eût soufflé sur ses rimes, brouillé ses hémistiches, que le Divin Sot serait aujoud'hui aussi ignoré que le premier auteur d'Origines. - Après Racine, le jeu moisit. Il a duré mille ans !
Ni plaisanterie, ni paradoxe. La raison m'inspire plus de certitudes sur le sujet que n'aurait jamais eu de colères un jeune France. Du reste, libre aux nouveaux ! d'exécrer les ancêtres: on est chez soi et l'on a le temps.
On n'a jamais bien jugé le romantisme; qui l'aurait jugé ? Les critiques ! ! Les romantiques, qui prouvent si bien que la chanson est si peu souvent l'oeuvre, c'est-à-dire la pensée chantée et comprise du chanteur ?
Car Je est un autre. Si le cuivre s'éveille clairon, il n'y a rien de sa faute. Cela m'est évident: j'assiste à l'éclosion de ma pensée: je la regarde, je l'écoute: je lance un coup d'archet: la symphonie fait son remuement dans les profondeurs, ou vient d'un bond sur la scène.
Si les vieux imbéciles n'avaient pas trouvé du Moi que la signification fausse, nous n'aurions pas à balayer ces millions de squelettes qui, depuis un temps infini, ! ont accumulé les produits de leur intelligence borgnesse, en s'en clamant les auteurs !
En Grèce, ai-je dit, vers et Iyres rhythment l'Action. Après, musique et rimes sont jeux, délassements. L'étude de ce passé charme les curieux: plusieurs s'éjouissent à renouveler ces antiquités : - c'est pour eux. L'intelligence universelle a toujours jeté ses idées, naturellement; les hommes ramassaient une partie de ces fruits du cerveau: on agissait par, on en écrivait des livres: telle allait la marche, I'homme ne se travaillant pas, n'étant pas encore éveillé, ou pas encore dans la plénitude du grand songe. Des fonctionnaires, des écrivains: auteur, créateur, poète, cet homme n'a jamais existé !
La première étude de l'homme qui veut être poète est sa propre connaissance, entière; il cherche son âme, il l'inspecte, Il la tente, I'apprend. Dès qu'il la sait, il doit la cultiver; cela semble simple: en tout cerveau s'accomplit un développement naturel; tant d'égoistes se proclament auteurs; il en est bien d'autres qui s'attribuent leur progrès intellectuel ! - Mais il s'agit de faire l'âme monstrueuse: à l'instar des comprachicos, quoi ! Imaginez un homme s'implantant et se cultivant des verrues sur le visage.
Je dis qu'il faut être voyant, se faire voyant.
Le Poète se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens. Toutes les formes d'amour, de souffrance, de folie; il cherche lui-même, il épuise en lui tous les poisons, pour n'en garder que les quintessences.
Ineffable torture où il a besoin de toute la foi, de toute la force surhumaine, où il devient entre tous le grand malade, le grand criminel, le grand maudit, - et le suprême Savant ! - Car il arrive à l'inconnu ! Puisqu'il a cultivé son âme, déjà riche, plus qu'aucun ! Il arrive à l'inconnu, et quand, affolé, il finirait par perdre l'intelligence de ses visions, il les a vues ! Qu'il crève dans son bondissement par les choses inouïes et innommables: viendront d'autres horribles travailleurs; ils commenceront par les horizons où l'autre s'est affaissé !
- La suite à six minutes
Ici j'intercale un second psaume hors du texte 9: veuillez tendre une oreille complaisante, - et tout le monde sera charmé. - J'ai l'archet en main, je commence:
(poem My Little Lovelies/"Mes Petites amoureuses")
Voilà. Et remarquez bien que, si je ne craignais de vous faire débourser plus de 60 c. de port, - moi pauvre effaré qui, depuis sept mois, n'ai pas tenu un seul rond de bronze ! - je vous livrerais encore mes Amants de Paris, cent hexamètres, Monsieur, et ma Mort de Paris, deux cents hexamètres !
Je reprends:
Donc le poète est vraiment voleur de feu.
Il est chargé de l'humanité, des animaux même; il devra faire sentir, palper, écouter ses inventions; si ce qu'il rapporte de là-bas a forme, il donne forme; si c'est informe, il donne de l'informe. Trouver une langue;
- Du reste, toute parole étant idée, le temps d'un langage univer sel viendra ! Il faut être académicien, - plus mort qu'un fossile, pour parfaire un dictionnaire, de quelque langue que ce soit. Des faibles se mettraient à penser sur la première lettre de l'alphabet, qui pourraient vite ruer dans la folie !
Cette langue sera de l'âme pour l'âme, résumant tout, parfums, sons, couleurs, de la pensée accrochant la pensée et tirant. Le poète définirait la quantité d'inconnu s'éveillant en son temps dans l'âme universelle: il donnerait plus - que la formule de sa pensée, que la notation de sa marche au Progrès. énormité devenant norme, absorbée par tous, il serait vraiment un multiplicateur de progrès !
Cet avenir sera matérialiste, vous le voyez. - Toujours pleins du Nombre et de l'Harmonie, ces poèmes seront faits pour rester. - Au fond, ce serait encore un peu la Poésie grecque.
L'art éternel aurait ses fonctions; comme les poètes sont citoyens. La Poésie ne rhythmera plus l'action; elle sera en avant.
Ces poètes seront ! Quand sera brisé l'infini servage de la femme, quand elle vivra pour elle et par elle, I'homme, - jus qu'ici abominable, - lui ayant donné son renvoi, elle sera poète, elle aussi ! La femme trouvera de l'inconnu ! Ses mondes d'idées différeront-ils des nôtres ?ãElle trouvera des choses étranges, insondables, repoussantes, délicieuses; nous les prendrons, nous les comprendrons.
En attendant, demandons aux poètes du nouveau, - idées et formes. Tous les habiles croiraient bientôt avoir satisfait à cette demande. - Ce n'est pas cela !
Les premiers romantiques ont été voyants sans trop bien s'en rendre compte; la culture de leurs âmes s'est commencée aux accidents: locomotives abandonnées, mais brûlantes, que prennent quelque temps les rails. - Lamartine est quelquefois voyant, mais étranglé par la forme vieille. - Hugos, trop cabochard, a bien du vu dans les derniers volumes: Les Misérables sont un vrai poème. J'ai Les Châtiments sous la main; Stella donne à peu près la mesure de la vue de Hugo. Trop de Belmontet et de Lamennais, de Jéhovahs et de colonnes, vieilles énormités crevées.
Musset est quatorze fois exécrable pour nous, générations douloureuses et prises de visions, - que sa paresse d'ange a insultées ! O ! les contes et les proverbes fadasses ! ô les nuits ! ô Rolla, ô Namouna, ô la Coupe ! tout est français, c'est-à-dire haïssable au suprême degré; français, pas parisien ! Encore une oeuvre de cet odieux géniel qui a inspiré Rabelais, Voltaire, Jean La Fontaine, commenté par M. Taine ! Printanier, I'esprit de Musset ! Charmant, son amour ! En voilà, de la peinture à l'émail, de la poésie solide ! On savourera longtemps la poésie française, mais en France. Tout garçon épicier est en mesure de débobiner une apostrophe Rollaque; tout séminariste en porte les cinq cents rimes dans le secret d'un carnet. A quinze ans, ces élans de passion mettent les jeunes en rut; à seize ans, ils se contentent déjà de les réciter avec coeur; à dix-huit ans, à dix sept même, tout collégien qui a le moyen, fait le Rolla, écrit un Rolla ! Quelques-uns en meurent peut-être encore. Musset n'a rien su faire: il y avait des visions derrière la gaze des rideaux: il a fermé les yeux. Français, Panadif, traîné de l'estaminet au pupitre de collège, le beau mort est mort, et, désormais, ne nous donnons même plus la peine de le réveiller par nos abominations !
Les seconds romantiques sont très voyants: Th. Gautier, Lec de Lisle, Th. de Banville. Mais inspecter l'invisible et entendre l'inouï étant autre chose que reprendre l'esprit des choses mortes, Baudelaire est le premier voyant, roi des poètes, un vrai Dieu. Encore a-t-il vécu dans un milieu trop artiste; et la forme si vantée en lui est mesquine: les inventions d'inconnu réclament des formes nouvelles.
Rompue aux formes vieilles, parmi les innocents, A. Renaud, - a fait son Rolla;ãL. Grandet, - a fait son Rolla;ãles gaulois et les Musset, G. Lafenestre, Coran, Cl. Popelin, Soulary, L. Salles; Les écoliers, Marc, Aicard, Theuriet; les morts et les imbéciles, Autran, Barbier, L. Pichat, Lemoyne, les Deschamps, les Desessarts; les journalistes, L. Cladel, Robert Luzarches, X. de Ricard; les fantaisistes, C. Mendès; les bohêmes; les femmes; les talents, Léon Dierx et Sully-Prudhomme, Coppée, - la nouvelle école, dite parnassienne, a deux voyants, Albert Mérat et Paul Verlaine, un vrai poète. - Voilà. Ainsi je travaille à me rendre voyant. - Et finissons par un chant pieux.
(poem "Accroupissements")
Vous seriez exécrable de ne pas répondre : vite car dans huit jours, je serai à Paris, peut-être.
Au revoir. A. Rimbaud.
-www.geocities.com/Athens/8161/rimlettre.html
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