A SEASON IN HELL (PART I)
By Arthur Rimbaud
Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts
opened, where all wines flowed.
One night, I sat Beauty on my knees.—And I found her bitter.
—And I reviled her.
I armed myself against justice.
I fled. O witches, o misery, o hate, to you my treasure was entrusted!
I managed to vanquish all human hope from my spirit. So as to
strangle every joy, I made the silent leap of a wild beast.
I called the executioners as I died in order to bite their rifle butts.
I called on plagues to choke me with sand, blood. Misfortune
was my god. I lay spread in the mud. I dried myself with the air
of crime. And I played fine tricks on madness.
And spring brought me the appalling laugh of the idiot.
However, only lately, on the point of making my final squawk,
I thought of seeking the key to the ancient feast, where I might
take up my old appetite.
Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming!
“You’ll remain a hyena…” etc., cries the demon who crowned me
with such pleasant poppies.
“Win death with all your appetites, and your selfishness, and all
the deadly sins.”
Ah! I took too much:—But, dear Satan, I entreat you, an eye less
inflamed! and while we wait on some little, late cowardice, you who
love the absence of descriptive or instructive faculties in a writer, let me
tear out some hideous pages from this notebook of a damned soul.
Unpublished Excerpt
Translated from the French
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