Rimbaud was something of a shit. Much more of a shit in his early years than the latter (such as they were -- dying at 37) but something of a shit through and through.
At least, such would Edmund White's Rimbaud: The Double Life of a Rebel lead us to believe. And I have no reason to doubt. The double life, of course, refers to Rimbaud's (very) early attention to poetry (or rather, the "poetic" life & poetry -- the latter marking a sea-change in French verse; the former marked by his acting the part of a mammoth shit) and his subsequent turn away from poetry and, after fits and starts and plenty of dead-ends, refashioning himself as a trader in the Horn of Africa primarily.
I do wish there were more on those last years. White covers them but spends the bulk of this slim volume on those early years, as a poet, as a shit, as master of the poet Verlaine (no cuddly love muffin himself, I might add), and as terror and brute towards just about all others (as well -- for he was a terror and brute to Verlaine).
The book itself is put out by Atlas & Company, which has seemed to come out of nowhere to start publishing beautiful little books that, if nothing more, look fantastic. There were a few typos in this volume which I'm sure one of the editors read and thought, dear god!! I wish they weren't there. But they are.
Next up, Inside the Stalin Archives: Discovering the New Russia. Not immediately, but soon enough. I'm just rather happy to be free of Rimbaud.
Did I mention he was something of a shit?
No comments:
Post a Comment