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!
-Arthur Rimbaud