Was Rimbaud's poetry too obscure?
Obscure? To the blind, yes. To those content with their comfortable lies, their predictable prettiness, my words are stones, shards of glass. They call it obscure because it refuses to serve their petty minds. They want explanations, neatly packaged sentiments. I offer explosions. I offer the raw, untamed pulse of existence. If it blinds you, if it tears you apart, then you are beginning to see. Your 'clarity' is a disease of the soul.
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