Night In Hell by Arthur Rimbaud
Night In Hell
by Arthur Rimbaud
Translated by Wallace Fowlie
(from "Rimbaud: Complete Works, Selected Letters," 1966, The University of Chicago Press)
http://home.earthlink.net/~thechurch/songfinder/night-in-hell.html
Note: Fowlie's translation is supposed to be the most accurate word-for-word translation from the French original. Style in English is not really considered in it.
I swallowed a monstrous mouthful of poison.-Thrice blessed be the idea that came to me!-My entrails are burning. The poison's violence twists my limbs, deforms me and hurls me to the ground. I am dying of thirst and choking. I can't cry out. It is hell, an eternal punishment! See how the fire rises up again! I am burning as I should. Come on, demon!
I'd caught a glimpse of my conversion to the good and to happiness, salvation. How can I describe the vision? The air of hell does not permit hymns! There were millions of charming creatures, a sweet spiritual concert strength and peace, noble ambitions, how can I know what?
Noble ambitions!
And this is still life!-And damnation is eternal! A man who tries to mutilate himself is surely damned, isn't he? I think I am in hell, and therefore I am. It is the result of the catechism. I am a slave to my baptism. Parents, you have caused my misfortune and your own. Poor innocent!-Hell has no power over pagans.-This is still life! Later, the delights of damnation will be all the greater. A crime, quick, so I can drop into the void in accordance with the law of man.
Be quiet! Will you be quiet! ... Here, there is shame and reprobation. Satan says the fire is contemptible and my anger totally ridiculous.-Enough! ... They are whispering errors to me, magic, strange perfumes, childish melodies.-And to think that I have truth, that I see justice. My judgement is sound and certain, I am ready for perfection ... Pride.-My scalp is drying up. Pity! Lord, I am afraid. I am thirsty, so thirsty! Ah! childhood, grass, rain, lake water on the pebbles, moonlight when the bell tower rang twelve ... The devil is in the tower at this moment. Mary! Holy Virgin! ... -The horror of my stupidity.
Back there, are they not good souls who wish me well? ... Come ... A pillow is over my mouth. They cannot hear me, they are ghosts. Besides, no one ever thinks of anyone else. Let no one come near. I'm certain that I smell scorched.
There are countless hallucinations. In truth, it is what I've always had: no faith in history and the forgetting of principles. I will not speak of this: poets and visionaries would be jealous. I am the richest a thousand times over. Let me be as avaricious as the ocean.
Why! the clock of life stopped just now, and I'm no longer in the world.-Theology is serious, hell is certainly down below-and Heaven up above.-Ecstasy, nightmare, sleep in a nest of flames.
Oh! the malice in attentiveness to the country ... Satan, Old Nick, runs about with the wild grain ... Jesus is walking over the scarlet brambles without bending them down ... Once Jesus walked on the troubled waters. The lantern showed him to us, standing and pale, with long dark hair, beside an emerald wave ...
I intend to unveil all mysteries: religious mysteries or those of nature, death, birth, the future, the past, cosmogony, the void. I am a master of hallucinations.
Listen! ...
I possess every talent!-There is no one here, and there is someone. I would not like to expend my treasure.-Do you want primitive songs or houri dances? Do you want me to disappear and dive after the ring? Do you? I will make gold and remedies.
Then trust in me. Faith relieves and guides and cures. Come all,-even the little children.-I will comfort you, and pour out my heart for you-my marvelous heart!-Poor men, workers! I am not asking for prayers. With your trust alone, I will be happy.
-Just think of me. This hardly makes me miss the world. I am lucky enough not to suffer any more. My life was only sweet madness, and that is too bad.
Bah! Let's make all possible faces.
Decidedly, we are out of this world. No more sound. My touch has gone. Ah! my castle, my Saxony, my willow grove. The evenings, the mornings, the nights, days. How tired I am!
I should have my hell for anger, for pride,-and the hell of caresses; a concert of hells.
I am dying of weariness. It is the tomb, I am going to the worms, horror of horrors! Satan, joker, you are trying to dissolve me with your charms. I object. I object! Give me a poke with your pitchfork! A drop of fire.
Ah! if I could rise again into life! and cast my eyes on our deformities. And that poison, that kiss damned a hundred times. My weakness, the world's cruelty. Pity, God, hide me, I misbehave!-I am hidden and I am not hidden.
The fire rises up again with its damned.
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Hellish Night
Arthur Rimbaud
From A Season in Hell & Illuminations by Arthur Rimbaud, translated by Bertrand Mathieu (BOA Editions, 1991).
http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/hellish-night
Note: to me, a very simplistic and understandable translation.
I’ve swallowed a terrific mouthful of poison.-Blessings three times over on the impulse that came to me!-My guts are on fire. The poison’s violence twists my limbs, deforms me, knocks me down. I’m dyng of thirst, I’m choking, I can’t scream. It’s hell, endless pain! Look how the fire flashes up! I’m burning nicely. Go on, demon!
I’d caught a glimpse of conversion to goodness and happiness, salvation. Can I describe the vision? Hell’s atmosphere won’t suffer hymns! There were millions of charming people, a sweet spiritual concert, strength and peace, noble ambitions, who knows?
Noble ambitions!
And this is still life!- What if damnation’s everlasting! A man who wants to mutilate himself is pretty well damned, right? I think I’m in hell, therefore I am. It’s the catechism come true. I’m the slave of my baptism. Parents, you’ve created my tortures and yours.-Poor nitwit! Hell can’t wield power over pagans.- This is still life! Later on, the delights of damnation will be much deeper. A crime, quick, so I can plunge into nothingness in accordance with human law.
Shut up, will you shut up. .. ! There’s disgrace and reproaches here-Satan who says the fire’s contemptible, who says my temper’s desperately silly.- Enough. .. ! Errors they’re whispering to me, magic, misleading perfumes, childish music.-And to think I’m dealing in truth, I’m looking at justice: my reasoning powers are sane and sound, I’m ready for perfection. .. Pride.-My scalp is drying up. Help! Lord, I’m scared. I’m thirsty, so thirsty! O childhood, the grass, the rain, the lake water on stones, the moonlight when the hell struck twelve. . . . The devil’s in the tower right now. Mary! Holy Virgin. . . !- Loathing for my blunder.
Out there, aren’t those virtuous souls who are wishing me well. . . ? Come.. .. I’ve got a pillow over my mouth, they won’t hear me, they’re ghosts. Besides, no one ever thinks of others. Don’t come near me. I smell of heresy, that’s for sure.
No end to these hallucinations. It’s exactly what I’ve always known: no more faith in history, principles forgotten. I’ll keep quiet: poets and visionaries would be jealous. I’m a thousand times richer, let’s be miserly like the sea.
Well now! the clock of life stopped a few minutes ago. I’m not in the world any more.- Theology’s a serious thing, hell is certainly way down-and heaven’s above.-Ecstasy, nightmare, sleep in a nest of flames.
How malicious one’s outlook in the country. . . Satan-Old Scratch--goes running around with the wild grain. . . Jesus is walking on the blackberry bushes without bending them. .. Jesus used to walk on troubled waters. The lantern revealed him to us, standing, pale with long brownish hair, on the crest of an emerald wave. . . .
I’m going to unveil all the mysteries: religious mysteries or natural, death, birth, future, past, cosmogony, nothingness. I’m a master of hal- lucinations.
Listen...!
I’ve got all the talents!- There’s no one here and there’s someone: I wouldn’t want to waste my treasure.-Do you want nigger songs, houri dances? Do you want me to disappear, to dive down for the ring? Do you want that? I’m going to make gold. . . remedies.
Then have faith in me, faith is soothing, it guides, it cures. Come, all of you-even the little children-and I’ll comfort you, I’ll spill out my heart for you,-the marvelous heart!-Poor men, workers! I don’t ask for your prayers. With your trust alone, I’ll be happy.
-And what about me? All of this doesn’t make me miss the world much. I’m lucky not to suffer more. My life was nothing but lovely mistakes, it’s too bad.
Bah! let’s make every possible ugly face.
We’re out of the world, for sure. Not even a sound. My touch has disappeared. Ah, my castle, my Saxony, my willow woods. Evenings, mornings, nights, days. . . I’m worn out!
I should have my hell for anger, my hell for conceit-and the hell of caresses: a concert of hells.
I’m dying of tiredness. It’s the grave, horror of horrors, I’m going to the worms! Satan, you joker, you want to melt me down with your charms. I demand it, I demand it! a poke of the pitchfork, a drop of fire. Ah, to come back to life again! To feast my eyes on our deformities.
And that poison, that kiss a thousand times damned! My weakness, the world’s cruelty! My God, mercy, hide me, I always misbehave!-I’m hidden and then again I’m not.
It’s the fire flaring up again with its damned!