I know your heart, that crowded solitude where old uprooted loves are crammed into a roaring forge: — Charles Baudelaire, from “Sad Madrigal,” Fleurs du mal / Flowers of Evil. (Published by Auguste Poulet-Malassis 1857)
Does your heart still throb at my very name? Do you still see my soul in your dreams? — Paul Verlaine, from “Sentimental Dialogue,” One Hundred and One Poems. tr. by Muriel Kittel. (University of Chicago Press; 1 edition, November 1, 2000)
One evening, I sat Beauty in my lap. — And I found her bitter. — And I reviled her. — Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell: Prologue. Originally published in 1873 by French writer Arthur Rimbaud. It is the only work that was published by Rimbaud himself.
I am the wound and the knife! I am the slap and the cheek! I am the limbs and the rack, And the victim and the executioner! I am the vampire of my own heart. — Charles Baudelaire, from “The Self-Tormentor,” Fleurs du mal / Flowers of Evil. (Published by Auguste Poulet-Malassis 1857)
Eternity It has been found again. What? – Eternity. It is the sea fled away With the sun. Sentinel soul, Let us whisper the confession Of the night full of nothingness And the day on fire. From humain approbation, From common urges You diverge here And fly off as you may. Since from you alone,… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud
I am the soul in agony. This passion is mine. — Arthur Rimbaud, from “The Savior Bumped Upon His Heavy Butt,” Arthur Rimbaud: Complete Works. (HarperCollins; 1st edition, March 1, 1975)
The Desire To Paint Unhappy perhaps is the man, but happy the artist, who is torn with this desire. I burn to paint a certain woman who has appeared to me so rarely, and so swiftly fled away, like some beautiful, regrettable thing the traveller must leave behind him in the night. It is already… Continue reading Charles Baudelaire