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A review by casparb
Illuminations: Prose Poems by Arthur Rimbaud
5.0
Rimbaud knew what to do...
I've loved Rimbaud for years so here's a little reread again for French what a joy a unique genius & this has only reminded me of what a comet a unique he was. I recommend the HP Complete Rimbaud even if the translation can be spotty & there's no French since it has a whole wealth of letters including a ridiculously impressive one from a ten year old Arthur. Will just drop some bio I think about-
At eleven Rimbaud is writing Latin verse & you can find some of his prizewinners in the Complete. Ver Erat is a Latin poem written at fourteen (!!!) and is exceptional ( Tum capiti inscripsit caelesti haec nomina flamma: /Tu Vates Eris... ). At fifteen he has the original idea of writing poetry in French and by seventeen is writing poems professional poets could only dream of writing in a fifty-year career. PLease see Roman it's one of my absolute favourites. Anyway after various dramas such as getting shot in the wrist by Verlaine (lovers eh) Illuminations was the last of his works published and it's beautiful & a masterpiece and before he reached 21 Rimbaud had given up writing poetry for life.
So as one can imagine this is a thunderstruck work of enthusiasm & experience & sheer brilliance but also what especially struck me this time was that it's entirely a work about growing up, beyond the teenage years. The sequence alone speaks to this - the collection opens with Après Le Déluge and is followed by the incredible Enfance - the collection progresses through various Ville sequences, Spiritual affairs ( Dévotion & Mystique ) lovers - I recommend H - until we arrive at Jeunesse . I don't think I could pick a favourite but it's a candidate. He's a master of the prose poem & a permanent inspiration this is evolution. He certainly didn't invent the form but reading him feels like it. I'll do my best to track down a French copy of Une Saison en Enfer because now I want to reread that.
Je suis le saint, en prière sur la terrasse, comme les bêtes pacifiques paissent jusqu'à la mer de Palestine.
Je suis le savant au fauteuil sombre. Les branches et la pluie se jettent à la croisée de la bibliothèque.
... L'air est immobile. Que les oiseaux et les sources sont loin! Ce ne peut être que la fin du monde, en avançant.
I've loved Rimbaud for years so here's a little reread again for French what a joy a unique genius & this has only reminded me of what a comet a unique he was. I recommend the HP Complete Rimbaud even if the translation can be spotty & there's no French since it has a whole wealth of letters including a ridiculously impressive one from a ten year old Arthur. Will just drop some bio I think about-
At eleven Rimbaud is writing Latin verse & you can find some of his prizewinners in the Complete. Ver Erat is a Latin poem written at fourteen (!!!) and is exceptional ( Tum capiti inscripsit caelesti haec nomina flamma: /Tu Vates Eris... ). At fifteen he has the original idea of writing poetry in French and by seventeen is writing poems professional poets could only dream of writing in a fifty-year career. PLease see Roman it's one of my absolute favourites. Anyway after various dramas such as getting shot in the wrist by Verlaine (lovers eh) Illuminations was the last of his works published and it's beautiful & a masterpiece and before he reached 21 Rimbaud had given up writing poetry for life.
So as one can imagine this is a thunderstruck work of enthusiasm & experience & sheer brilliance but also what especially struck me this time was that it's entirely a work about growing up, beyond the teenage years. The sequence alone speaks to this - the collection opens with Après Le Déluge and is followed by the incredible Enfance - the collection progresses through various Ville sequences, Spiritual affairs ( Dévotion & Mystique ) lovers - I recommend H - until we arrive at Jeunesse . I don't think I could pick a favourite but it's a candidate. He's a master of the prose poem & a permanent inspiration this is evolution. He certainly didn't invent the form but reading him feels like it. I'll do my best to track down a French copy of Une Saison en Enfer because now I want to reread that.
Je suis le saint, en prière sur la terrasse, comme les bêtes pacifiques paissent jusqu'à la mer de Palestine.
Je suis le savant au fauteuil sombre. Les branches et la pluie se jettent à la croisée de la bibliothèque.
... L'air est immobile. Que les oiseaux et les sources sont loin! Ce ne peut être que la fin du monde, en avançant.