What did he know that we don't know?

what did he know that we don't know?

the feeling of dick up the ass

well at least i dont know that feel. OP probably knows that feel.

Strong themes and styles have to be broken down before literature can come into being. It is this breaking down that is called "writing." Writing is more about destroying than creating. No one knew that better than Rimbaud. The remarkable thing about him was not that he arrived at this insight at such a disturbingly young age but that he applied it to life as well. For Rimbaud everything was about freedom, in writing as in life, and it was because freedom was paramount that he could put writing behind him, or perhaps even had to put writing behind him, because it too become a curb on him that had to be destroyed. Freedom is destruction plus movement. Another writer to realize this was Aksel Sandemose. His tragedy was that he was only able to perform the latter part in literature, not in life. He destroyed, and never moved on from what he had destroyed. Rimbaud went to Africa.

>Freedom is destruction plus movement.
Karl Ove

I recently encountered this in my life.
I am too afraid an unmanly to apply it.

So is Karl Ove, not that I believe he really wants it though.

I don't believe he wants it at all. He seems to be constantly at odds with what is expected of him and what he "wants" or wants to want. He talks about freedom and alone time but continues to build a family and maintain a job.

you never see threads about Verlaine
you never see threads about Victor Hugo
you never see threads about Mallarme
you never see threads about Apollinaire
We only have threads about Rimbaud because of his boypussy.

wrong
wrong
wrong
wrong
boipuc is right at least.
Stop posting.

>boypussy
>boipuc


STOP USING THIS WORD YOU MOTHERFUCKERS
REEEEEEEEEE

nothin wrong with boypussy tho

>sheep

You'll never have gay fantasies about Victor Hugo though, at least admit that

You're missing out ;-p

Arthur also bad this adorable toy theory of poetry and literature he called alchemy of the word.

He believed that a writer could transsubstantiate the matter of his psyche by transferring it onto the page in bright and firery language. A lot of his poems are love letters in this regard, because he was a horny teenager trying to get into girls (and men's) pants.

He basically thought you could hack your own source code through poetry.

This is my first time seeing a thread about him, but I approve of the poetic boypussy. This guy is much more attractive than that ugly fuck Wilde.

London.

all sodomites will be purged by sandniggers soon enough

he probably just had a lot of street knowledge and angst he needed to write out. and he seemed to really love reading "dumb enough to read a boring book twice"

but... hes a qt...

>tfw nobody ever mentions best boi biggie b

La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.

Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches ;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.

Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
Et le riche métal de notre volonté
Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.

C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent !
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas ;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.

Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.

Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,
Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.

Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.

Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,

II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde !
Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde ;

C'est l'Ennui ! L'œil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
- Hypocrite lecteur, - mon semblable, - mon frère !

He was one of us.

I could go for a Lautreamont thread.

meme language

No Perse, no Char, no Éluard, no Valéry, no Michaux... but Rimbaud :(

How good is Char ? I bought pic-related yesterday but honestly don't know anything about him, only read a preface he wrote for an edition of Rimbaud's works.

...

the manga was better

he is OK, a poet with soldier's sensibility

*même langage

The way his eyes look up reminds me of Marcus Aurelius