For my birthday in April, my mother bought me two books: Patti Smith’s recent memoir Just Kids and, infinitely more fascinating to me, Arthur Rimbaud’s collection of prose poems A Season In Hell.
I have always been a sucker for the romantically deviant life stories of suffering artists. The more practical side of me knows that, in truth, it is a horrible thing to cut off an ear or drown in a bathtub of heroin. But the irrational and creative side cannot help but adore every example of servitude to the powerful command of artistic genius and every psychological defect that comes with following one’s passion. Because of this interest, I have known Rimbaud’s story for some time.
I knew that he was known as a rebel, a Decadent, a hedonist, a masochist, a depressive, a hormonal teenager, and a guiding light to many artists that I consider personal heros…
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