A Season In Hell

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Perhaps this is not just some weird wittering after all, given the influence Rimbaud has had on so many. Benim okuduğum bu baskının çevirisi bence çok güzeldi. zaten ilk 43 sayfa şairden önceki akımları ve şairin kendisini inceleyen bir çevirmen notu var. kitabın sonunda da şiirle ilgili açıklamalar var yine. ama tavsiyem, Rimbaud'un Cehennemde Bir Mevsim'in içinde bulunan "Sözün Simyası'nı okumanız, çünkü az çok kendi sanatını anlatıyor. Verlaine ile ilişkisi içinse 'Çingene Kız, Cehennemlik Koca'sı okunmalı. Ayrıca şuradan okuyabileceğiniz kitap ( Rimbaud: The Works: A Season In Hell, Poems & Prose, Illuminations), bana oldukça fayda sağladı. Sometimes I see limitless beaches in the sky covered by white nations full of joy. A great golden vessel, above me, waves its multicoloured flags in the morning breeze. I’ve created all the feasts, all the triumphs, all the dramas. I’ve tried to invent new flowers; new stars, new flesh, new languages. I believed I’d gained supernatural powers. Ah well! I must bury my imagination and my memories! Sweet glory as an artist and story-teller swept away! For ages I boasted of possessing all possible landscapes, and found the celebrities of modern painting and poetry absurd. The third part was... well, I don't want to say that I enjoyed reading it, because it's about the narrator's death and his arrival to hell (nothing really nice to read right before going to bed, honestly), but it's beautifully written. Again, this young man makes you feel what was going through his mind and soul with unsettling details.

O divine Spouse, my Lord, do not refuse the confession of the most sorrowful of your servants. I am lost. I am drunk. I am impure. What a life! In Arthur Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell & Illuminations, to extinguish all human will to live, all human hope from one’s soul is to find eternity, a semblance of universality that makes the living of life more bearable, where the best thing to be and become is an outcast to one’s desires, to find in fleeing all the lost selves we’ve had to inhabit. The poet uses anaphora, beginning several lines with the pronoun “I”. He explains how he disappeared from his life and banished “human hope from” his mind. Metaphorically, he describes himself as an animal who is tearing up everything he used to value. All joy in his life is destroyed. For Schopenhauer, the deepest problem of the self, afflicting itself, is our individuality. The will to live must live and fester on itself since nothing exists beside it, and it becomes temporarily will-less, a mere passive mirror of reality, where its attachment to suffering and satisfaction, happiness and unhappiness, willing and nothingness is a farce we are all forced to endure. Here I am on the Breton shore. How the towns glow in the evening. My day is done: I’m quitting Europe. Sea air will scorch my lungs: lost climates will tan me. To swim, trample the grass, hunt, above all smoke: drink hard liquors like boiling metals – as those dear ancestors did round the fire.

This future will be materialistic, you see. – Always filled with Number and Harmony, these poems will be made to last. – At heart, it will be a little like Greek poetry again. If God would grant me celestial, aerial, calm, prayer – like the ancient saints – the Saints! Strong ones! The anchorites, artists for whom there’s no longer need!

At present, I inhabit the world’s depths! O my friends! ... No, not my friends...Never such ravings such torments...It’s so stupid!Bernard Mathieu describes A Season in Hell as "a terribly enigmatic poem", and a "brilliantly near-hysterical quarrel between the poet and his 'other'." [1] :p.1 He identifies two voices at work in the surreal narrative: "the two separate parts of Rimbaud's schizoid personality—the 'I' who is a seer/poet and the 'I' who is the incredibly hard-nosed widow Rimbaud's peasant son. One voice is wildly in love with the miracle of light and childhood, the other finds all these literary shenanigans rather damnable and 'idiotic'." [1] :pp.1–2 In the last line, he describes spring and how it brought to him “the dreadful laugh of the idiot”. He seems to be going mad, losing touch with the things that could be positive in his life, and laughing at the coming of spring. It’s likely that with its transformations he realizes, more than anyone else, that the seasons change nothing. He’s still miserable. Mason: "Long ago, if my memory serves, life was a feast where every heart was open, where every wine flowed."