Customer Reviews

Illuminations (Picas Series 2)

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Though her translations are flawed and somewhat dated, Louise Varese still has not been topped as a the bringer-into-English of lil' Arther R.'s thorny prose-poems. Her versions remain closer in spirit to the originals than any of the later translations, most of which (if you'll pardon my French) suck, from the bland lazy word-for-word of the Penguin Classics edition, to the innumerable "interpreters" (Paul Schmidt and his shameless ilk) who make of his poems what they will (sometimes to further lengths than JR Ullman did with "The Day On Fire") and then call their work "translations." Anyway, if you know Rimbaud I'm probably preaching to the converted, and if you don't, and don't read French, the two New Directions/Varese translations are probably the best place to start, along with Pierre Petitfils' user-friendly biography.

For me, modern poetry is Rimbaud. Sometimes I think modern writing in general is Rimbaud, but usually only after a few drinks. In any case, this is one of two books that are essential for anyone interested; Louise Varese (wife of composer Edgard) was one of the first and is still the best English translator that Rimbaud has ever had; her versions are as faithful as possible, but have a swing and an energy (even in these prose poems) that nobody else has reached. A mighty book.

The works of Rimbaud have become as famous for the character of the writer as for the writings themselves. However, with any work of art, the true test will be the content of the work rather than the person behind the pen. That said, the prose poetry of this child-man artist was an attempt to break away from all types of oppression in all forms (as viewed by Rimbaud): tradition, social expectation, as well as literary convention. First and foremost, Rimbaud was a thinker and then a writer but, unlike many philosophical writers (verses aesthetic writers, i.e.--Proust), he rarely lapses into didacticism. As for the content of his writing, one must consider that Rimbaud prefaced many literary movements, including psychoanalysis in his attempt to let one's "true self" write by "deranging the senses"; his focus on synesthesia predated the Dada movement and allowed him to become a godfather to the Surrealists; his themes of impotence and suffering foreshadowed the existentialists; and his use of multiple narrators foresaw the upcoming modernists in 20th century America.

The mark of an extraordinary writer to me has always had something to do with whether the writer's genre was enhanced by the writer. This is a tall order, I know, but the very best writers change the way that their genre is perceived. Rimbaud's prose poems challenged the traditonal style of the Romantics who wrote before him. He brought a sharp, new incandescence, a flaring literary reality, a breakthrough perception to poetry expressed by his point of view. His stirring soul is seared by his epiphanies expressed in simple, clean and gleaming imagery. At times, he reminded me of Blake and Yeats. But his poetry is so original and personal and inventive that the genre metamorphosed by his unique literary perspective. Rimbaud believed that the poet must deliberately become an antagonist and work to place one's sensibilities into constant upheaveal in order to write poetry that is truly revelatory. His life was lived to the hilt as he traveled worldwide with Paul Verlaine and traded adventure incessantly. His destitution, lust for life and piquant sensibilities abound in the light and shadow of his poetry. The genre is indebted to the invention, passion and beauty expressed by this tormented soul who simply couldn't get enough of life.

After reading the poetry of Rimbaud, especially any of the Illuminations, it's hard to forget. If the role of the poet truly is to find something new, then Rimbaud surpasses anyone's imaginations. They are a torment. You can recognize immediately that they are creations of genius, but understanding what they truly are is nearly impossible - and that's what make the Illuminations great. A hundred readings of one of them will still leave you baffled, but will also leave you with the feeling that there is something out there that you don't know, that will explain everything. Rimbaud knows and he is laughing at us.

Schizophrenic disassociation of life and mind make for a double tragedy in this young man's early death. A. Ginsberg longed for that ancient connection with the starry dynamo in the night; Rimbaud's brain shook with its deadly current and it made him feel quite odd among the emissaries of French bushwa normality, wearing buttoned coats, with eyes averted, as they stepped over the alter-ego of the boy, the poet in heat, in the gutter of the whorehose they were leaving.

The poems typify European longing for escape from the feudal history of their rigid societies, and make one think of a dog yowling at the moon while teathered to the rock that Sisyphus rolled up the hill.

A highly introverted exposay of French longing for the nobel savage, dramatically punctuated with images as consoling as the sun going nova, blazing in the eye of a mad dog.

Well worth the read if you want to see what being Hal Hartley's Henry Fool with real torment might be like.

Schizophrenic disassociation of life and mind make for a double tragedy in this young man's early death. A. Ginsberg longed for that ancient connection with the starry dynamo in the night; Rimbaud's brain shook with its deadly current and it made him feel quite odd among the emissaries of French bushwa normality, wearing buttoned coats, with eyes averted, as they stepped over the alter-ego of the boy, the poet in heat, in the gutter of the whorehose they were leaving.

The poems typify European longing for escape from the feudal history of their rigid societies, and make one think of a dog yowling at the moon while teathered to the rock that Sisyphus rolled up the hill.

A highly introverted exposay of French longing for the nobel savage, dramatically punctuated with images as consoling as the sun going nova, blazing in the eye of a mad dog.

Well worth the read if you want to see what being Hal Hartley's Henry Fool with real torment might be like.

These metaphysical wet dreams will delight sulky teenagers and juveniles of all ages, but adults will agree with Rimbaud's own judgement: "It's all slop." The Varese translation leaves most of the (rumored) music behind in the original French; what remains is the prose end of the prose-poem equation. I found these pieces supremely boring. Perhaps if I cared about the Rimbaud myth I would read these with different eyes-- but I don't, and therefore what I find is faux passion and histrionic hormones. Add a stilted English to this mixture and the result is malodorous. Not recommended.