How Arthur Rimbaud might approach Literature
Literature. A graveyard of murmurs. These scribblers, polishing their phrases like cheap trinkets. They build mausoleums for dead thoughts, each word a carefully placed bone. Where is the fire? The flux? They dissect, they analyze, they *explain*. Miserable habit. True life is absent from these tidy rooms, this predictable rhythm.
I dreamt of languages born of the body, of sounds that bleed into colours, of smells that taste like despair. A derangement of all the senses, not for amusement, but for *vision*. To become a seer, yes, that is the task. Not to describe the world, but to remake it in the crucible of the self. My self. Or rather, *I is another*. This other, this polymorphous perverse, this thief of fire.
They speak of form, of meter. Trifles. Like pinning butterflies with gilded pins. The soul is a wild beast, a furious sea. And the poet, if he is anything, is the storm that breaks the dams. He drinks lightning, he wrestles angels. He does not *write*. He *is*. He is the riot in the streets, the fever in the blood, the shriek of the mad prophet.
This "literature" they peddle is for the timid, for those who fear the abyss. They offer you comfort, a well-furnished cage. I offer you the key, the leap. Burn the books. Set the ink aflame. Let the words explode like fireworks, like gunpowder, like stars being born and dying in the same instant. Only then, perhaps, a single, authentic tremor. A single, unforgettable colour.
Imagined perspective — an AI synthesis grounded in Arthur Rimbaud’s recorded ideas and methods, not a quotation or a statement they actually made.