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batsworthy's review against another edition
3.0
I have a feeling this text's translation faltered in some areas - in Rimbaud's earlier poems and his letters the renditions were fine, but the later, surrealist, prose-y material felt undecipherable in some parts. I'm not very fluent in French but I caught myself quite a few times glancing at the left side of the page and re-arranging the English words to make them sound prettier - I do love the arrangement of words. Maybe I should become a translator. Rimbaud's poems did solidify my want to continue to learn French with more focus. Particularly the material structured to rhyme in the original text was pleasant even to gaze on.
Some of the poems were pretty boring, maybe because I'm not all that big a fan of figurative language. Rimbaud's development as a person was fascinating to go through. He ended up being an enormous leech; it reminded me of people I know. I also wish more letters to Verlaine were included, because those were the most intense of his correspondences by far.
Not a bad read by any stretch, but I think I've had enough of this lad for a few years. O Angst! O Angst! I worship you!
I
We aren't serious when we're seventeen.
—One fine evening, to hell with beer and lemonade,
Noisy cafés with their shining lamps!
We walk under the green linden trees of the park
The lindens smell good in the good June evenings!
At times the air is so scented that we close our eyes.
The wind laden with sounds—the town isn't far—
Has the smell of grapevines and beer...
II
—There you can see a very small patch
Of dark blue, framed by a little branch,
Pinned up by a naughty star, that melts
In gentle quivers, small and very white...
Night in June! Seventeen years old! —We are overcome by it all
The sap is champagne and goes to our head...
We talked a lot and feel a kiss on our lips
Trembling there like a small insect...
III
Our wild heart moves through novels like Robinson Crusoe,
—When, in the light of a pale street lamp,
A girl goes by attractive and charming
Under the shadow of her father's terrible collar...
And as she finds you incredibly naïve,
While clicking her little boots,
She turns abruptly and in a lively way...
—Then cavatinas die on your lips...
IV
You are in love. Occupied until the month of August.
You are in love. —Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends go off, you are ridiculous.
—Then one evening the girl you worship deigned to write to you...!
—That evening, ... —you return to the bright cafés,
You ask for beer or lemonade...
—We're not serious when we are seventeen
And when we have green linden trees in the park.
Some of the poems were pretty boring, maybe because I'm not all that big a fan of figurative language. Rimbaud's development as a person was fascinating to go through. He ended up being an enormous leech; it reminded me of people I know. I also wish more letters to Verlaine were included, because those were the most intense of his correspondences by far.
Not a bad read by any stretch, but I think I've had enough of this lad for a few years. O Angst! O Angst! I worship you!
I
We aren't serious when we're seventeen.
—One fine evening, to hell with beer and lemonade,
Noisy cafés with their shining lamps!
We walk under the green linden trees of the park
The lindens smell good in the good June evenings!
At times the air is so scented that we close our eyes.
The wind laden with sounds—the town isn't far—
Has the smell of grapevines and beer...
II
—There you can see a very small patch
Of dark blue, framed by a little branch,
Pinned up by a naughty star, that melts
In gentle quivers, small and very white...
Night in June! Seventeen years old! —We are overcome by it all
The sap is champagne and goes to our head...
We talked a lot and feel a kiss on our lips
Trembling there like a small insect...
III
Our wild heart moves through novels like Robinson Crusoe,
—When, in the light of a pale street lamp,
A girl goes by attractive and charming
Under the shadow of her father's terrible collar...
And as she finds you incredibly naïve,
While clicking her little boots,
She turns abruptly and in a lively way...
—Then cavatinas die on your lips...
IV
You are in love. Occupied until the month of August.
You are in love. —Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends go off, you are ridiculous.
—Then one evening the girl you worship deigned to write to you...!
—That evening, ... —you return to the bright cafés,
You ask for beer or lemonade...
—We're not serious when we are seventeen
And when we have green linden trees in the park.
bibilly's review against another edition
confesso que a (longa) nota biográfica me impactou mais que os poemas. como pode um francês ter inventado a adolescência antes dos 20. e enviar Uma Temporada no Inferno para o amante preso por lhe meter bala? a bit too iconic.
lukashawk's review against another edition
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
tkb1917's review against another edition
4.0
I’d love to be able to read it in the original French fluently but yeah it’s brilliant
joshhansonhorror's review against another edition
5.0
A pretty decent literal translation with original french on facing pages. Invaluable.
ellephuonglinhnguyen's review against another edition
4.0
All periods of time have ends to them, and these fatal endings we anticipate. A period of time—a day, an hour, a year-and this will end, we say; all this will end, the season will turn, and all will be over. We look in vain for some eternal moment, for happiness, felicity, that state of bliss that will go on for ever and ever. Is not happiness defined only when no term to its extent is imagined? So Rimbaud thought, it seems to me. His seasons are those stretches of time that open unawares and close painfully in our lives. That summer, those two years in the city, this love affair, that month in the country—these are the true, the organic epochs of our lives; the dates that mark their endings are our true anniversaries. Are not these the seasons Rimbaud wrote of: the implacable turning of seasons, and the denial of happiness implicit in their movement? Here then are the records of Rimbaud's Seasons—all his poems, his prose, most of his letters.
dani_the_adventurer's review against another edition
dark
emotional
funny
lighthearted
reflective
tense
slow-paced
3.75