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Quote by Dariusz Radziejewski

“Arthur was six years old when I left the family. Due to my infrequent stays at home, we did not form a strong bond. Occasionally, I longed for the lost fatherhood. Did he long for his lost childhood? I did not have a chance to tell him about the sea in which the stars float, about the red, fiery sunrises and sunsets, about the storm that tosses a ship like a nutshell, about flocks of screeching seagulls, schools of fish, and picturesque islets. I wanted to spin a tale about life in the desert, about the scorching sand burning the feet and the hot air shimmering with strange mirages. About wild, freedom-loving people, bizarre customs, and exotic beasts. I remember him squatting over a puddle at dusk.”

Quote by Dariusz Radziejewski

Book:Adieu, Rimbaud!
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Adieu, Rimbaud!

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Dariusz Radziejewski

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“Not long after, a response came. Verlaine invited Rimbaud to Paris. He sent along a one-way ticket. Paris was waiting for the young genius. It was about time. Arthur’s mother had had enough of him, and her ultimatum was running out: either he would find a job or he would be out on the street. He was almost seventeen and was neither in job nor in education, even though peace had come, and the school had reopened its doors.”

French PoetryArthur Rimbaud
Book:Adieu, Rimbaud!
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“Paul went to pick him up at the train station, but they must have failed to meet because Rimbaud came on his own, on foot. I expected him to be similar to my beloved romantic poets. Beautiful and childishly pure like Alfred de Musset. Or divinely handsome like Lamartine, with the appearance of a Greek god. Or manly and strikingly comely like Chateaubriand, gazing at the sea as the breeze blows his long curls of hair. As a young girl, I was in love with the poetry of our bards and their portraits. Meanwhile, here in front of our well-kept house, I saw a sloppy rascal in tattered clothes, with disheveled hair, a sweaty face, and no luggage! I was itching to ask: and where is your Sunday garb? A change of underwear? Toothbrush, clothes brush, shoe brush, handkerchief, comb? Well, call me overly idealistic, but I genuinely believed that a normal person couldn’t do without these things.”

French PoetryArthur Rimbaud
Book:Adieu, Rimbaud!
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“Because even though the portrait itself is interesting, I don’t look very favorable in it. I resemble Jesus Christ after twenty years of drinking absinthe. I have serious, sadly drooping eyes and the pale, emaciated face of a consumptive. Pastel colors have been set free, fluttering like butterflies. At first glance, they seem to have no fixed place on the canvas, only the gaze of the observer can pin them down. They are soft and resonate chromatically.”

French PoetryArthur Rimbaud
Book:Adieu, Rimbaud!
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“The conclusions of the medical examination of the accused Verlaine, conducted by doctors Semal and Vlemincks, the court also considered an aggravating circumstance. The medical report states that Verlaine’s penis is short and thin, and the glans is small and tapers toward the tip, which would indicate active pederasty. The rectum can be easily dilated by slightly parting the buttocks to a depth of about three centimeters. In this way, the enlarged infundibulum is exposed, resembling a truncated cone with a concave top. Although the sphincter folds contract almost normally, passive pederasty is also highly probable.”

French PoetryArthur Rimbaud
Book:Adieu, Rimbaud!
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“Living among the wild blacks, for whom killing a man is like spitting, and killing a white man elevates the status of a warrior, was a balm to me, soothing the unbearable pain of an existence based on convention, the Ten Commandments, and the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen. In Africa, I took a few lives by my own hand, but it was either in self-defense or to protect valuable cargo I was transporting. I don’t count the slaves traveling with the caravan because they always dropped like flies and were worth less than camels.”

French PoetryArthur Rimbaud
Book:Adieu, Rimbaud!
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“And now (admiring that proſpect) To Rome this ſpeech he did direct. O ſeate of Gods! could this men ſo Forſake thee, ere they ſaw a foe? If thou canſt not, what Citty can Deſerue to be fought for by man? Well haue the higher powers repreſt, The humors of the armed Eaſt, From ioyning with the Hungars ſtout And all that fierce outragious rout Of Dakes, of Getes, and Sarmatans, From bringing downe their bloudy bands To thee (poore Rome) by Fortune ſpar'd Whom fearefull Pompey durſt not gaurd. So weakely mand, more bleſt art farre With ciuill then with Forraigne warre. Thus ſaid, forthwith he did inveſt The Citty, then with feares poſſeſt: For ſure they thought, that (in his ire) All should haue beene conſum'd with fire, And Temples ſhould to ruine runne, As ſoone as hee the walles had wonne. Such was the meaſure of their fright, His will they conſtru'd by his might. And in ſuch ſudden mazements weare, That they their ſacred rites forbeare. The common ſort to ſportings bent, Their merry tunes turn'd to lament: No ſpleen they had, their ſprights were ſpent The Roman Fathers reuerend troope In Phabus Pallace fitting, droope: Not thither called at an houre, By order of the Senates powre. No Conſuls with their preſence grace Their ſacred ſeates in ſupreme place. Nor next to them the lawes to ſway The Prator ſate in his array. No Coches at the Senate gate, That thither bring the Peeres of ſtate. Caſar alone was all in all, His priuate voyce the Court doth thrall. The Fathers to his heſts giue way, Rady his pleasure to obay. Whether he Monarchy deſire, Or would to ſacred rites aſpire: Or liues of Senators would waſt, Or them into exile would caſt. But he (more modeſt and more milde) Did blush his power ſhould be defil'd More to command (with threatning feare) Then well the Roman ſtate could beare.”

Epic PoetryPoetry In TranslationLucan Pharsalia Civil War
Book:Civil War
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