a season in hell
"once, if i remember right, my life was a celebration where all hearts were open and all wines flowed. one night i sat Beauty on my lap. and i found she was bitter, and i called her names. i found weapons to use against justice. i ran away. poverty, hate, you witches, my treasure was left in your care. i managed to wither all human hope inside me. i attacked like a wild animal, and strangled every joy. i called for executioners, i wanted to perish chewing on their gun butts. i called for plagues, so i could suffocate in sand, in blood. unhappiness was my god. i lay down in the mud, and dried off in the crime-infested air. i played the fool until i was really crazy. and by spring i had the scary laugh of an idiot. now a while ago, when i was about to go arrrrgh! for the last time, i thought i'd try to find the key to that lost celebration, where--maybe--i could recover my appetite. that key is Selfless Love. (--which goes to show i was dreaming.). "you stay a hyena, etc..." shouts the demon who once crowned me with pretty poppies. "go find death--use all your appetites, your egotism, and all the Seven Deadly Sins.". oh, i did too much of that. but satan, please, don't look so upset! and while we're waiting for a few last minute cowardices, here you like writers with no talent at all for description or instruction, so take these pages. they're for you. i tore them out of my notebook of a lost soul."
-arthur rimbaud
-arthur rimbaud