{"product_id":"i-promise-to-be-good-isbn-9780812970159","title":"I Promise to Be Good","description":"One of the most written-about literary figures in the past decade, Arthur Rimbaud left few traces when he abandoned poetry at age twenty-one and disappeared into the African desert. Although the dozen biographies devoted to Rimbaud’s life depend on one main source for information—his own correspondence—a complete edition of these remarkable letters has never been published in English. Until now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA moving document of decline, Rimbaud’s letters begin with the enthusiastic artistic pronouncements of a fifteen-year-old genius, and end with the bitter what-ifs of a man whose life has slipped disastrously away. But whether soapboxing on the essence of art, or struggling under the yoke of self-imposed exile in the desert of his later years, Rimbaud was incapable of writing an uninteresting sentence. As translator and editor Wyatt Mason makes clear in his engaging Introduction, the letters reveal a Rimbaud very different from our expectations. Rimbaud—presented by many biographers as a bohemian wild man—is unveiled as “diligent in his pursuit of his goals . . . wildly, soberly ambitious, in poetry, in everything.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI Promise to Be Good: The Letters of Arthur Rimbaud\u003c\/i\u003e is the second and final volume in Mason’s authoritative presentation of Rimbaud’s writings. Called by Edward Hirsch “the definitive translation for our time,” Mason’s first volume, \u003ci\u003eRimbaud Complete\u003c\/i\u003e (Modern Library, 2002), brought Rimbaud’s poetry and prose into vivid focus. In \u003ci\u003eI Promise to Be Good\u003c\/i\u003e, Mason adds the missing epistolary pieces to our picture of Rimbaud. “These letters,” he writes, “are proofs in all their variety—of impudence and precocity, of tenderness and rage—for the existence of Arthur Rimbaud.” \u003ci\u003eI Promise to Be Good\u003c\/i\u003e allows English-language readers to see with new eyes one of the most extraordinary poets in history.“Wyatt Mason’s translation of Rimbaud’s letters is a swashbuckler of a book, nothing less than a resurrection of a remarkable life. As such, it is a worthy companion to Mason’s fine translation of the poems. No admirer of Rimbaud will want to be without it.” —\u003cb\u003eArthur Goldhammer\u003c\/b\u003e, translator of more than eighty books from the French\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“These letters, together with the poems, provide as direct a record as possible of what the archetypal bohemian boy-genius did with his gift. They brim with curiosity, ambition, spite, self-pity, and a giant talent; his art is as impervious to time as that of Catullus or Heine. Thanks to Wyatt Mason’s masterly translations, Rimbaud has, after a century and a half, recovered his gift.” —\u003cb\u003eAskold Melnyczuk\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eWhat Is Told\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eAmbassador of the Dead\u003c\/i\u003eThe poetic genius of \u003cb\u003eArthur Rimbaud\u003c\/b\u003e (1854–1891) blossomed early and burned briefly. Nearly all of his work was composed when he was in his teens. During the century following his death at thirty-seven, Rimbaud’s work and life have influenced generations of readers and writers. Radical in its day, Rimbaud’s writing took some of the first and most fundamental steps toward the liberation of poetry from the formal constraints of its history, and now represents one of the most powerful and enduring bodies of poetic expression in human history.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWyatt Mason is a contributing editor of \u003ci\u003eHarper’s\u003c\/i\u003e magazine, where his essays regularly appear. He also writes for \u003ci\u003eThe London Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe New Republic\u003c\/i\u003e. The Modern Library has published his translations of the complete works of Arthur Rimbaud in two volumes. His translations of Dante’s \u003ci\u003eVita Nuova \u003c\/i\u003eand Montaigne’s \u003ci\u003eEssais\u003c\/i\u003e are in progress.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNOTE LEFT IN THE MAILBOX OF GEORGES IZAMBARD\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e[Charleville; undated, most likely late winter 1870]\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf you have, and if you can lend me:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(above all)1: Historical Curiosities, volume one by (I think) Ludovic Lalanne;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2: Bibliographical Curiosities, volume one by same;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3: French Historical Curiosities, by P. Jacob, first series, including the Feast of Fools, the King of the Ribauds, the Francs-Taupins, and Jesters of France,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(And above all). . . and the second series of same.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'll come by for them tomorrow, around ten or ten-fifteen. -I'll be in your debt. They will be most useful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArthur Rimbaud\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTO THÉODORE DE BANVILLE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharleville (Ardennes), May 24, 1870\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCher Maître,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese are the months of love; I'm seventeen, the time of hope and chimeras, as they say, and so, a child blessed by the hand of the Muse (how trivial that must seem), I've set out to express my good thoughts, my hopes, my feelings, the provinces of poets-I call all of this spring.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor if I have decided to send you a few poems-via the hands of Alp. Lemerre, that excellent editor-it is because I love all poets, all the good Parnassians-since the poet is inherently Parnassian-taken with ideal beauty; that is what draws me to you, however naïvely, your relation to Ronsard, a brother of the masters of 1830, a true romantic, a true poet. That is why. Silly, isn't it? But there it is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn two years, perhaps one, I will have made my way to Paris. -Anch'io, gentlemen of the press, I will be a Parnassian! Something within me . . . wants to break free . . . I swear, Master, to eternally adore the two goddesses, Muse and Liberty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTry to keep a straight face while reading my poems: You would make me ridiculously happy and hopeful were you, Maître, to see if a little room were found for \"Credo in Unam\" among the Parnassians . . . I could appear in the final issue of le Parnasse: it would be a Credo for poets! Ambition! Such madness!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArthur Rimbaud\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e***\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough blue summer nights I will pass along paths,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePricked by wheat, trampling short grass:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDreaming, I will feel coolness underfoot,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWill let breezes bathe my bare head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot a word, not a thought:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBoundless love will surge through my soul,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I will wander far away, a vagabond\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn Nature-as happily as with a woman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eApril 20, 1870\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA.R.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOPHELIA\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn calm black waters filled with sleeping stars\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhite Ophelia floats like a lily,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFloating so slowly, bedded in long veils . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Hunting horns rise from the distant forest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA thousand years without sad Ophelia,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA white ghost on the long black river;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA thousand years of her sweet madness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMurmuring its ballad in the evening breeze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wind kisses her breasts, arranges her veils\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a wreath softly cradled by waters;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShivering willows weep at her shoulder,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReeds bend over her broad dreaming brow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRumpled water lilies sigh around her;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd up in a sleeping alder she sometimes stirs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA nest from which a tiny shiver of wings escapes:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-A mysterious song falls from golden stars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eII\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO pale Ophelia. Beautiful as snow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou died, child, borne away upon waters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWinds from high Norwegian mountains\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhispered warnings of liberty's sting;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause a breath carried strange sounds\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo your restless soul, twisting your long hair,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYour heart listened to Nature's song\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn grumbling trees and nocturnal sighs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause deafening voices of wild seas\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBroke your infant breast, too human and too soft;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause one April morning, a pale, handsome knight,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA poor fool, sat silent at your feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSky. Love. Liberty. What dreams, poor Ophelia.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou melted upon him like snow in flame:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVisions strangled your words\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Fear of the Infinite flared in your eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIII\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-And the poet says you visit after dark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn starlight, seeking the flowers you gathered,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd that on the water, sleeping in long veils\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe saw white Ophelia floating like a lily.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e15 May 1870\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArthur Rimbaud\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCREDO IN UNAM . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sun, hearth of tenderness and life,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpills molten love onto a grateful earth,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd, when you're asleep in a valley, you can feel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe earth beneath you, nubile and ripe with blood;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer huge breast, rising with the soul within,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs, like god, made of love; like woman, made of flesh;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHeavy with sap and sunlight,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd embryonic swarms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow it all grows, how it all rises.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-O Venus, O Goddess.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI long for the lost days of youth,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor wanton satyrs and beastly fauns,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGods who, for love, bit the bark of branches\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd kissed blonde Nymphs in water-lily pools.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI long for lost days: when the rosy blood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf green trees, the water in rivers,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the world's sap flowed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePouring a universe into Pan's veins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the green ground breathed beneath his goat's feet;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen his lips, softly kissing his syrinx,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSent a song of love into the sky;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen, standing on the plain, he heard\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNature respond to his call;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the silent trees cradled the songbird,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the earth cradled man, the blue seas\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd the beloved beasts-beloved in God.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI long for lost days when great Cybele\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn all her boundless beauty was said\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo cut across magnificent cities\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a great bronze chariot, both of her breasts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpilling the pure stream of eternal life\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnto the breach. Mankind suckled\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer blessed breast like a delighted little child.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Because he was strong, Man was gentle and chaste.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMisery! For now he says: I know everything,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd therefore wanders, eyes closed, ears shut. -And yet,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo more gods! No more gods! Man is King.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMan is God! But Love remains our Faith.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO Cybele! O grandmother of gods and men,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf only man could linger at your breast,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf only he hadn't forsaken immortal Astarte\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho, flower of flesh, odor of oceans,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce rose from the vast brightness of the blue waves,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBaring a rosy belly snowing foam, goddess\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith great black conquering eyes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho made the nightingale sing in forests\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd love in human hearts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI believe in You! I believe in You! Divine Mother,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAphrodite of the sea! Oh the way is bitter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow that another God has yoked us to his cross;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFlesh, Marble, Flower, Venus: I believe in you!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Man is sad and ugly, sad beneath an enormous sky,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe is clothed for he is no longer chaste,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe has sullied his godly head,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd his Olympian body is stooped\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn dirty servitude, an idol in the fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, even in death, even as a pale skeleton\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe would live on, an insult to his original beauty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-And the Idol upon whom you lavished your virginity,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn whom you made mere clay divine, Woman,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo that Man might illuminate his poor soul\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd slowly climb, in limitless love,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the earthy prison to the beauty of light-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWoman has forgotten her virtue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Such a farce! And now the world snickers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the sacred name of mother Venus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf only lost time would return.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Man is done for, has played his part.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the light, weary of smashing his idols\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe revives, free from his Gods,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd, as if he were from heaven, searches the skies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe idea of an invincible, eternal Ideal,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe god who endures within clayey flesh,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWill rise and rise until he burns his brow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd when you see him sound the horizon,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShrugging off old yokes, free from fear,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou will offer him divine Redemption.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Splendid, radiant in the bosom of endless oceans\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou will rise, releasing infinite love across\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn expanding universe with an infinite smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe World will quiver like an enormous lyre\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the tremblings of an enormous kiss.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-The World thirsts for love: you slake it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFree and proud, Man lifted his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd the first glimmer of original beauty\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShakes the god in the altar of flesh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHappy with the present good, sad for sufferings past,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMan would sound the depths-would know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThought, a mare long stabled though broken,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLeaps from his brow. She must learn Why . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet her leap, let Man find Faith!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Why this azure silence, this unsoundable space?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy these gold stars streaming like sand?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWere one to climb the skies\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForever, what would one find?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoes some shepherd guide this great flock\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf worlds, wandering through the horror of space?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd these worlds that the great ether embraces,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo they tremble at the sound of an eternal voice?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-And Man, can he see? Can he say: I believe?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs the voice of thought more than a dream?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf man is so recently born, and life is so short,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere does he spring from? Does he sink\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInto the deep seas of Germs, Fetuses, Embryos,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo the bottom of a vast Crucible where\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMother Nature revives him-living thing-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo love amidst roses and to grow with the wheat . . . ?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe cannot know. -Our shoulders bear\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA cloak of ignorance and confining chimeras.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMen are monkeys fallen from their mothers' wombs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur pale reason hides any answers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe try to look: -Doubt punishes us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoubt, doleful bird, beats us with its wings . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-And the horizon flees in perpetual flight . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe heavens are wide open! All mysteries are dead\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn Man's eye, who stands, crossing his strong arms\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithin the endless splendor of nature's bounty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe sings . . . and the woods with him, and the rivers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMurmur a jubilant song that rises into the light. . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-It is Redemption. It is love. It is love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe splendor of flesh! The splendor of the Ideal!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe renewal of love, a triumphant dawn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen, Gods and Heroes kneeling at their feet,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhite Callipyge and little Eros\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBlanketed in a snow of roses,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWill lightly touch women and flowers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBlossoming beneath their beautiful feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO great Ariadne whose tears water\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe shoreline at the sight of Theseus' sail,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhite in sun and wind. O sweet virgin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy a single night undone, be silent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLysios in his golden chariot embroidered\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith black grapes, strolling in the Phrygian fields\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmong wanton tigers and russet panthers,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReddens the moss along blue rivers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZeus, the Bull, cradles the naked, childlike body of Europa\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAround his neck as she throws a white arm\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAround the God's sinewy shoulders, trembling in a wave,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe slowly turns his bottomless stare upon her;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer pale cheek brushes his brow like a blossom;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer eyes close; she dies\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a divine kiss; and the murmuring wave's\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGolden spume blossoms through her hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Through oleander and lotus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLovingly glides the great dreaming Swan\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEnfolding Leda in the whiteness of his wing;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-And while Cypris, so strangely lovely, passes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd, arching her richly rounded hips,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eProudly bares her large golden breasts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd her snow white belly embroidered with dark moss,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHercules-Tamer of Beasts, who as if with a nimbus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGirds his powerful form with a lion skin, his face\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBoth terrible and kind-heads for the horizon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the muted light of the summer moon,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStanding naked and dreaming in the gilded pallor\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStaining the heavy wave of her long blue hair,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the dark clearing where the moss is stung with stars,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Dryad stares at the silent sky . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-White Selene floats her veil\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTimidly across the feet of fair Endymion,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd sends him a kiss in a pale beam of light . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-The distant Spring weeps in endless ecstasy . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur Nymph, elbow on her urn, dreams\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf the fair white lad her wave had touched.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-A breeze of love passed in the night,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd in the sacred woods, surrounded\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy terrible trees, majestic marble forms,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGods whose brows the Bullfinch makes his nest,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Gods watch over Man and the unending Earth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eApril 29, 1870\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWere these poems to find a place in le Parnasse, wouldn't they sing the poet's creed?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am unknown: so what? Poets are brothers. These verses believe; they love; they hope: that's enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHelp me, Maître: help me find my footing: I am young: give me your hand . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTO GEORGES IZAMBARD\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharleville, August 25, 1870\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMonsieur,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow lucky you are to be out of Charleville! In all the world, no more moronic, provincial little town exists than my own. I have no illusions about this any more. Because it is next to Mézières-which no one has heard of-because two or three hundred infantrymen wander its streets, my sanctimonious fellow residents gesticulate like Prudhommesque swordsmen, not at all like those under siege in Metz and Strasbourg! How dreadful, retired grocers donning their uniforms! How marvelous, as though that's all it takes, notaries, glaziers, tax inspectors, woodworkers, and all the well-fed bellies, which, rifles held to their hearts, make their shivering show of patriotism at the gates of Mézières; my countrymen unite! I prefer them seated; keep it in your pants, I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm disoriented, sick, angry, dumb, shocked; I was looking forward to sunbaths, endless walks, rest, travel, adventure, bohemianism, but: I was most looking forward to newspapers, books . . . -Nothing! Nothing! The mail brings nothing new to bookstores; Paris is having a fine time at our expense: not one new book! It's like death! I've been reduced to reading the estimable Courrier des Ardennes, owned, run, directed, edited-in-chief and edited-at-all by A. Pouillard! This newspaper sums up the hopes, dreams, and opinions of the local population; see for yourself! -I've been exiled inside my own country!!!!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHappily, I have your room: -You do recall that you gave me your permission. -I've borrowed half your books! I took Le Diable à Paris. And is there anything more ridiculous than Grandville's drawings? I took Costal l'indien, and La Robe de Nessus, two interesting novels. What else? I read all your books, all; three days ago, I sank as low as Les Epreuves, and then to Les Glaneuses-yes, I went so far as to reread it-but that was it. Nothing more; I've exhausted my lifeline, your library. I found Don Quixote; yesterday, I spent two hours looking at Doré's woodcuts; now I have nothing! I'm sending you some poetry; read it one morning. In the sun, as I wrote it: I hope you aren't a teacher anymore!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt seemed to me that you had wanted to know more of Louisa Siefert when I lent you her most recent poems; I just managed to find some pieces from her first book, Les Rayons perdus, 4th edition. In it I found a very moving and beautiful poem, \"Marguerite\":\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOff to one side, bouncing on my thighs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas my little cousin with big sweet eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarguerite is a ravishing girl,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBlonde hair, little lips like pearls\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd transparent skin . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarguerite is too young. Were she mine . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHad I a child so sweet, blonde and fine . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA delicate creature in whom I could be reborn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePink and guileless with a stare so forlorn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat tears rise to the rims of my eyes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I think of her bouncing on my thighs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNever to be mine-an absence I mourn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause fate, heaping me with scorn,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDelights to see love devoured by flies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one will say of me: ah, such a good mother!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo child will look at me and say: mommy!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA chapter unwritten in this heavenly homily\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo which every girl hopes to contribute another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEighteen, and my life is over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-I think that's as beautiful as Antigone's laments in Sophocles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-I have Paul Verlaine's Fêtes galantes, in a pocket edition. Really strange, very funny; but, really, adorable. And sometimes he takes serious license, like:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd the ter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erible tigress\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e. . . is a line in the book. You should buy a little book of his called La Bonne Chanson: it just came out with Lemerre; I haven't read it; nothing comes here; but more than one newspaper has had good things to say about it;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-So good-bye, send me a 25-page letter-general delivery-and right away!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA. Rimbaud\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eP.S. -Soon, revelations about the life I'll lead . . . after vacation . . .Rimbaud Complete, Volume II; Translated, Edited, and with an Introduction by Wyatt Mason","brand":"Modern Library","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299830976741,"sku":"NP9780812970159","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812970159.jpg?v=1767729693","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/i-promise-to-be-good-isbn-9780812970159","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}