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spacestationtrustfund's review against another edition
3.0
Il est impossible de surestimer l'influence des écrits de Rimbaud sur moi, en tant qu'individu, en tant qu'écrivain, en tant que poète et en tant que personne.
epicpinkfluffyunicorn's review against another edition
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.25
rimbaud so good but this isnt the best translation i feel. also idk some of his gross poems r … gross
nereidodelette's review against another edition
5.0
I read his poetry because of the séminaire at the university, I'm glad that I chose this course because I got to get to known this magnificent poet. His poems feel like several short pieces of the dark epic fantasy novels, which creates some sort of violent, yet resplendent dreams and imagination for me.
jasonrcf's review against another edition
5.0
It took me forever to finally finish this because I found the last section to be too depressing to read through, yet it somehow makes it all the more beautifully mythic, despite the editor at one point candidly letting out— “Could he not simply have disappeared? Or died young?”
Essential reading and one I know I’ll be coming back to in the future, hopefully in French, if I can ever muster the competency for Rimbaud's gloriously dense and weathered verse.
Essential reading and one I know I’ll be coming back to in the future, hopefully in French, if I can ever muster the competency for Rimbaud's gloriously dense and weathered verse.
baumrinr's review against another edition
So many remarkable passages. Here's a couple:
"For I is someone else. If brass wakes up a trumpet, it is not its fault. This is obvious to me: I am present at this birth of my thought: I watch it and listen to it: I draw a stroke of the bow: the symphony makes its stir in the depths, or comes onto the stage in a leap. If old imbeciles had not discovered only the false meaning of the Ego, we would not have to sweep away those millions of skeletons which, for time immemorial! have accumulated the results of their one-eyed intellects by claiming to be the authors!"
"The wolf cried under the leaves
As he spat out the fine feathers
Of his meal of fowl:
Like him I consume myself.
Lettuce and fruit
Wait only to be picked;
But the spider of the hedge
Eats only violets.
Let me sleep! Let me boil
At the altars of Solomon.
Boiling water courses over the rust,
And mixes with the Kidron."
"For I is someone else. If brass wakes up a trumpet, it is not its fault. This is obvious to me: I am present at this birth of my thought: I watch it and listen to it: I draw a stroke of the bow: the symphony makes its stir in the depths, or comes onto the stage in a leap. If old imbeciles had not discovered only the false meaning of the Ego, we would not have to sweep away those millions of skeletons which, for time immemorial! have accumulated the results of their one-eyed intellects by claiming to be the authors!"
"The wolf cried under the leaves
As he spat out the fine feathers
Of his meal of fowl:
Like him I consume myself.
Lettuce and fruit
Wait only to be picked;
But the spider of the hedge
Eats only violets.
Let me sleep! Let me boil
At the altars of Solomon.
Boiling water courses over the rust,
And mixes with the Kidron."
maddie_bookmad's review against another edition
3.0
I really enjoyed most of the poetry. But the letters at the end were a bit boring tbh. Could have done without them. But the poetry is sure worth a read, although I feel like my expectations were a bit too high...
punkrockingnerd's review against another edition
challenging
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
2.0
selenajournal's review against another edition
5.0
rimbaud is comfort reading for the soul. i fell into reading him on accident, i was talking about poetry with a friend and he happened to mention that this was his favourite poet. and he told me all about rimbaud’s past, the tryst he had with paul verlaine, the religious upbringing he had and the curious fact that rimbaud stopped writing at 21. that he dropped everything to become a merchant and to run away from it all. my interest was piqued; there isn’t any way that it couldn’t be.
what strikes me about rimbaud in the translated work that wyatt mason has compiled is the ability to watch him grow in the few years that he is a poet and writer. he lists the poetry and prose as best as he can by the year that it was written. mason even captures versions of poems, again sorting by year, so that you can see the corrections that age helped him to make to his beautiful poems.
i’ve read previous translations of rimbaud, and i’ve loved those as well, but this one felt a bit more… modern and relatable. instead of a literal translation, word by word, he tried to convey nuances of the language into english, which to me hasn’t been done as well by previous translators. i imagine reading it in the original french would be amazing, but alas, i can only speak so many languages.
below is probably my favourite prose piece that he’s written (which isn’t an easy thing to choose).
* * * *
Long ago, if my memory serves, life was a feast where every heart was open, where every wine flowed.
One night, I sat Beauty on my knee. –And I found her bitter. –And I hurt her.
I took arms against justice.
I fled, entrusting my treasure to you, o witches, o misery, o hate.
I snuffed any hint of human hope from my consciousness. I made the muffled leap of a wild beast onto any hint of joy, to strangle it.
Dying, I called my executioners over so I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called plagues to suffocate me with sand, blood. Misfortune was my god. I lay in the mud. I withered in criminal air. And I even tricked madness more than once.
And spring left me with an idiot’s unbearable laughter.
Just now, having nearly reached death’s door, I thought about seeking the key to the old feast, through which, perhaps, I might regain my appetite.
Charity is the key. –Such an inspiration proves I was dreaming!
“A hyena you’ll remain, etc….” cries the demon that crowns me with your merry poppies. “Make for death with every appetite intact, with your egotism, and every capital sin.”
Ah. It seems I have too many already: –But, dear Satan, I beg you not to look at me that way, and while you await a few belated cowardices—you who so delight in a writer’s inability to describe or inform—watch me tear a few terrible leaves from my book of the damned.
it’s hard for me to explain why i love a poet, or a specific poem. i feel transported, or full of life or anger, or just an emotion that previously hadn’t consumed me, for the duration of my reading and for some time beyond. i’m stuck in that space that the author has written and it feels for a time like i want nothing more than to drown in that emotion. this is why i read rimbaud, all the time.
what strikes me about rimbaud in the translated work that wyatt mason has compiled is the ability to watch him grow in the few years that he is a poet and writer. he lists the poetry and prose as best as he can by the year that it was written. mason even captures versions of poems, again sorting by year, so that you can see the corrections that age helped him to make to his beautiful poems.
i’ve read previous translations of rimbaud, and i’ve loved those as well, but this one felt a bit more… modern and relatable. instead of a literal translation, word by word, he tried to convey nuances of the language into english, which to me hasn’t been done as well by previous translators. i imagine reading it in the original french would be amazing, but alas, i can only speak so many languages.
below is probably my favourite prose piece that he’s written (which isn’t an easy thing to choose).
* * * *
Long ago, if my memory serves, life was a feast where every heart was open, where every wine flowed.
One night, I sat Beauty on my knee. –And I found her bitter. –And I hurt her.
I took arms against justice.
I fled, entrusting my treasure to you, o witches, o misery, o hate.
I snuffed any hint of human hope from my consciousness. I made the muffled leap of a wild beast onto any hint of joy, to strangle it.
Dying, I called my executioners over so I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called plagues to suffocate me with sand, blood. Misfortune was my god. I lay in the mud. I withered in criminal air. And I even tricked madness more than once.
And spring left me with an idiot’s unbearable laughter.
Just now, having nearly reached death’s door, I thought about seeking the key to the old feast, through which, perhaps, I might regain my appetite.
Charity is the key. –Such an inspiration proves I was dreaming!
“A hyena you’ll remain, etc….” cries the demon that crowns me with your merry poppies. “Make for death with every appetite intact, with your egotism, and every capital sin.”
Ah. It seems I have too many already: –But, dear Satan, I beg you not to look at me that way, and while you await a few belated cowardices—you who so delight in a writer’s inability to describe or inform—watch me tear a few terrible leaves from my book of the damned.
it’s hard for me to explain why i love a poet, or a specific poem. i feel transported, or full of life or anger, or just an emotion that previously hadn’t consumed me, for the duration of my reading and for some time beyond. i’m stuck in that space that the author has written and it feels for a time like i want nothing more than to drown in that emotion. this is why i read rimbaud, all the time.
arcg's review against another edition
challenging
dark
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
2.5
ollieshrouder's review against another edition
4.0
Some of the most realised, poignant, wonderful poetry that I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading, carefully bookended by the pretentious musings of a heartbroken poet who overstepped points of interest to the point of arrogant self indulgence. Avoid A Season in Hell, but everything leading up to it is absolutely flawless