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    A Season in Hell
    A Season in Hell
    A Season in Hell
    Ebook38 pages29 minutes

    A Season in Hell

    By Arthur Rimbaud

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    About this ebook

    A Season in Hell is an extended poem written and published by French writer Arthur Rimbaud. The book had a considerable influence on later artists and poets, for example the Surrealists. Henry Miller was important in introducing Rimbaud to America in the sixties. He once attempted an English translation of the book and wrote an extended essay on Rimbaud and A Season in Hell titled The Time of the Assassins. The poem is loosely divided into nine parts, some of which are much shorter than others. They differ markedly in tone and narrative comprehensibility, with some, such as "Bad Blood," 'being much more obviously influenced by Rimbaud's drug use than others, some argue. Academic critics have arrived at many varied and often entirely incompatible conclusions as to what meaning and philosophy may or may not be contained in the text, and will continue to do so.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookRix
    Release dateJun 15, 2019
    ISBN9783736819252
    A Season in Hell

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      Book preview

      A Season in Hell - Arthur Rimbaud

      A Season in Hell

      Arthur Rimbaud

      1

      Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.

      One evening I took Beauty in my arms – and I thought her bitter – and I insulted her.

      I steeled myself against justice.

      I fled. O witches, O misery, O hate, my treasure was left in your care!

      I have withered within me all human hope. With the silent leap of a sullen beast, I have downed and strangled every joy.

      I have called for executioners; I want to perish chewing on their gun butts. I have called for plagues, to suffocate in sand and blood. Unhappiness has been my god. I have lain down in the mud, and dried myself off in the crime-infested air. I have played the fool to the point of madness.

      And springtime brought me the frightful laugh of an idiot.

      Now recently, when I found myself ready to croak! I thought to seek the key to the banquet of old, where I might find an appetite again.

      That key is Charity. – This idea proves I was dreaming!

      You will stay a hyena, etc…, shouts the demon who once crowned me with such pretty poppies. Seek death with all your desires, and all selfishness, and all the Seven Deadly Sins.

      Ah! I’ve taken too much of that: – still, dear Satan, don’t look so annoyed, I beg you! And while waiting for a few belated cowardices, since you value in a writer all lack of descriptive or didactic flair, I pass you these few foul pages from the diary of a Damned Soul.

      Bad Blood

      From my ancestors the Gauls I have pale blue eyes, a narrow brain, and awkwardness in competition. I think my clothes are as barbaric as theirs. But I don’t butter my hair.

      The Gauls were the most stupid hide-flayers and hay-burners of their time.

      From them, I inherit: idolatry, and love of sacrelige; – oh! all sorts of vice, anger, lechery, – terrific stuff, lechery; – lying, above all, and laziness.

      I have a horror of all trades and crafts. Bosses and workers, all of them peasants, and common. The hand that holds the pen is as good as the one that holds the plow. – What a century for hands! – I’ll never learn to use my hands. And then,

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