April 25, 2005

• MONDAY BOOK

  Illuminations
  Arthur Rimbaud
  (translated by Louise Varese)

  It’s just a funky day – raining still so I can’t fix my yard to please the neighbors, ran an unpleased kitty to the vet for his yearly shots plus the monthly Advantages doses for all my cats ($98), spent two hours having Emile the Exterminator in my house crawling around shining flashlights under my kitchen appliances and setting mousetraps there and in the garage and down in the crawlspace to the tune of $125 so now I can ponder mice death for the next 2 weeks till he returns to gather the traps (and guess what, mice execution is now done with strips of sticky white stuff so the mouse sticks to it and starves to death), and tomorrow when the sun finally comes out is when I’ll have to be back at work not enjoying it. So for some reason Rimbaud came to mind – don’t ask me what the connection was.

  I found French poetry early and fell hard, even went back to college in midlife to major in French so I could read it better. And of course Rimbaud is quintessential for the writing itself but even more because it reflected his extraordinary life. Born in 1854 in a small French town to a middle class military family, when he was 6 his father deserted them and never returned. After this they lived in poverty but his mother managed to get him into formal schooling by age 8. He was soon seen to be gifted and by age 16 published his first poem. Eventually he began to win prizes at school. He began to run away from home during the Franco-Prussian war years, living a life of rebellion, and became influenced by the famous poet Paul Verlaine, joining him in Paris. These two poets moved to England when Rimbaud was 18 and lived together. It was during this period that he began to write Illuminations. During the following year Rimbaud wrote the rest of his poetry, ended his literary career, and never wrote poetry again, having been snubbed artistically. Over the next six years he wandered around Europe, spending time in the Dutch army, joining a circus, working as a farm laborer. Finally, he left for Africa in 1880 at age 26, became ill with syphilis, and took up gun-running. In the end, he died of cancer in Marseilles at age 37. Today, he is arguably the most famous French poet who ever lived. And here is one of my favorites:

  When the world is reduced to a single dark wood for our four eyes’ astonishment, – a beach for two faithful children, – a musical house for our pure sympathy, – I shall find you.

  Should there be here below but a single old man, handsome and calm in the midst of “incredible luxury”, I shall be at your feet.
  Should I have realized all your memories, – should I be the one who can bind you hand and foot, – I shall strangle you.

  When we are very strong, – who draws back ? very gay, – who cares for ridicule ? When we are very bad, – what would they do with us.
  Deck yourself, dance, laugh, – I could never throw Love out of the window.
  

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  Deep Thought: “If they ever have a haunted house for dogs, I think a good display would be a bathtub full of soapy water.”
  Today I am grateful for: Being able to afford Emile the Exterminator
  Guess the Movie: “What is so great about discovery? It is a violent, penetrative act that scars what it explores. What you call discovery, I call the rape of the natural world.” Answer: Jurassic Park, 1993. Winner: Eliminate_the_Impossible.
  Marines From Iraq Sound Off About Want of Armor and Men
  by Michael Moss
  On May 29, 2004, a station wagon that Iraqi insurgents had packed with C-4 explosives blew up on a highway in Ramadi, killing four American marines who died for lack of a few inches of steel. (Rest of article here.)
  End of Day: Oops forgot to sign out last night.

  • 6:54 pm
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