This isn’t Proust it’s not a simple matter of accustoming yourself to the rhythm of the sentences in order for the meaning to reveal itself. I think it’s natural to read prose and demand meaning from it, or recognition, and that isn’t something you’ll get consistently from Illuminations. The more I got to know the poems, the more I liked them. Which is kinda silly, yes, but lovely nevertheless. However, as I returned to the book over the following weeks certain images and lines jumped out at me, demanded my attention lines like:Ī hare paused amid the gorse and trembling bellflowers and said its prayer to the rainbow through the spider’s web Yet, I didn’t immediately love the poems reading the book cover-to-cover in one sitting my attention started to waver, my concentration flag the most I could say was that I had enjoyed it, but hadn’t been particularly moved. So, eventually, feeling more well-disposed towards Rimbaud and a little excited by the growing hype, I bought a pretty hardback version of the book. I was aware, at that point, that a fuss had been made of Ashbury’s translation of Illuminations, and periodically I’d catch a review or a mention of it somewhere. I had come back to live in the north of England, and there are less of those boys up here, and so the stain started to fade. It wasn’t until a year or so ago that my attitude changed. And, listen, I’m generally pretty tolerant my attitude is each to their own, as long as you’re not hurting anyone, it’s just that I can’t take these people seriously, and so that sense of ridiculousness left a stain on Rimbaud too. I don’t know if these characters exist in other parts of the world, but here in England there is a breed of boy who are, well, pretty unclean, and who consider themselves to be libertines and decadents, and so wibble on about French poetry and their own excruciatingly abysmal poetry, and their music, and they’ll usually also be holding a flower …well, those boys always fucking love Rimbaud. My other problem with Rimbaud was, in all honesty, not about the man but a certain kind of person who likes him. And to some extent that opinion is valid, in that my favourites of his works are the final two. I was of the opinion that one could show promise but not create something truly worthwhile at an age when most people’s greatest achievement is not being caught jacking off by their parents. Could someone really be that good at 15? I didn’t think so. I must admit that his age was a bit of a problem. The enfant terrible! The precocious teenager! The first modern man-boy! Ah. How to start, then? For a long time I was suspicious of Rimbaud I approached him with some prejudices. So, I’m going to have to piece something together off the cuff apologies if it’s a bit weak. My head, my mind, refuses to play ball whatever ability I might have had to complete ’s Illuminations has seemingly died at the bottom of a toilet bowl, was thrown up into that toilet bowl – along with my liver, spleen, kidneys – sometime early this morning. Anyway, I’ve been unable to bring the thing to completion. It’s not particularly Rimbaudean, because to be strictly Rimbaudean you would have to give up on reviewing the book altogether, his work being wholly personal and esoteric. Pigeoned in apprehension, he strove with his inexactitude, then was lost amidst the shallow lapping of his years. O sweet poems – all prosed all read – all sweet unknowing! The first one, which was written before any alcohol was imbibed is below: I had intended this review to be my own version of Rimbaud’s Illuminations, a series of short prose-poems about the work and its author. They say alcohol kills truckloads of braincells, and you have to wonder if it’s worth it. When you’re transported back, in your memories, to gaze, Scrooge-like, through a window at your weekend, and what you see is yourself singing Stick Wit U by The Pussycat Dolls you know it took a wrong turn somewhere.
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