A review of Somebody Else - Arthur Rimbaud in Africa by Charles Nicholl, Jonathan Cape, London, 1997, 335 pages, ISBN 0224043765 Odi et Amo
When I was seventeen, I fell in love with a sodomite. |
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Arthur Rimbaud wrote poetry for a few brief years, while he was still in his teens, from about 1870 to 1873. He could never have imagined the extraordinary influence his slim collection of poems would have over the following century. It seems that with every generation, young people rediscover Rimbaud for themselves - Rimbaud the teenage rebel, that is. There was another very different Rimbaud, and we’ll meet him in due course, focussed under the sympathetic lens of Charles Nicholl’s book. |
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But all of that would have meant nothing to Rimbaud. He had abandoned the world of literature long before. When he was nineteen, he gave in to a mixture of rage and pig-headed pride, and threw his marvellous talent onto a bonfire, along with his manuscripts. By the time his anger had eaten its way through his soul, he could not speak of poetry without contempt. He lived another eighteen years, wandering from one end of Europe to the other and as far afield as the East Indies. He joined the Dutch Colonial Army and was sent to Java, but deserted and returned to France. He got work in Cyprus, as an overseer of a stone quarry, but his temper got the better of him - ‘I have had some quarrels with the workmen,’ he wrote, ‘and I’ve had to request some weapons.’ He collapsed with typhoid and hurriedly returned home. In March 1880 - he was twenty-five - he left France for the last time. He found work in Cyprus again, as foreman of a construction gang in the mountains. He got involved in another quarrel and, it seems, threw a stone which hit a local worker on the temple and killed him. Rimbaud fled, travelling through the Red Sea - further and further from Europe - and ending up in the British port of Aden, a sun-baked volcanic crater perched at the gateway to the Indian Ocean on the coast of Yemen. He spent the next eleven years as an exile, working as a trader in Aden and Abyssinia. |
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In his sixteenth year, everything changed. Two catastrophic public events shook France, and a private calamity changed Rimbaud forever. |
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The older poet Banville lent him an attic flat for a while as a favour to Verlaine. Rimbaud became friends with the musician Ernest Cabaner, who also put him up for a while, the novelist Jules Claretie, and the poets Charles Cros and Germaine Nouveau. These bohemians were scandalising the bourgeoisie with their sexual indiscretions, their immodest writings and their indulgence in absinthe and hashish and opium. Rimbaud outdid them in every respect. |
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He made many enemies. Verlaine’s future biographer Lepelletier disapproved of his influence on his old friend Verlaine, and Rimbaud responded by calling him an ‘inkshitter’. When Lepelletier told Rimbaud to shut up, the boy threatened him with a table knife. A Season in Hell
In the collection of prose poems and verse fragments that make up the short book A Season in Hell, begun in April 1873 in an outbuilding at the family farm at the village of Roche and completed by the end of August, he looks back in despair over his life as a poet. In one of the fragments, titled ‘Ravings number two’ he talks about ‘the history of one of my follies’. ‘I invented the colours of the vowels!’ he claims, and goes on: ‘I flattered myself that I had created a poetic language accessible ... to all the senses ... I expressed the inexpressible. I defined vertigos ... I ended up regarding my mental disorder as sacred.’ |
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The last chapter of A Season in Hell is titled ‘Farewell.’ It has an air of exhaustion and relief about it. ‘I have tried to invent new flowers, new stars, new flesh, new tongues. I believed I had acquired supernatural powers. Well! I must bury my imagination and my memories. A fine fame as an artist and story-teller swept away! I! I who called myself magus or angel, exempt from all morality, I am given back to the earth, with a task to pursue, and wrinkled reality to embrace. A peasant!’ A Leftover Life
Nicholl gives a perceptive summary of these years of turmoil, but his focus sharpens as Rimbaud steps ashore in Aden in August, 1880. There he is on the edge of Africa, at twenty-five, burnt brown by the sun, worn out by fever and tiredness. He’s on the run, with very little money, no profession, no degree, no training, and no prospects. This was the first day of the rest of his life. |
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Rimbaud certainly wasn’t a tourist. His letters home were practical and filled with details of business schemes, expenses, and profit calculations. From those letters, mostly to his mother: ‘I am like a prisoner here’ - 1880. ‘I am by now completely habituated to every form of boredom’ - 1882. ‘My life here is a real nightmare. Don’t imagine I am enjoying it at all’ - May 1884. ‘I feel that I am becoming very old very quickly, in this idiotic occupation, in the company of savages or imbeciles’ - September 1884. |
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Rimbaud on his deathbed, sketched by his sister Isabelle, November 1891
‘One must be absolutely modern,’ he writes, in A Season in Hell. But the modern world presented him with an insurmountable problem. Edmund Wilson in an essay on Rimbaud points to the contradiction inherent in the role of poet at that time. In the utilitarian society which had been produced by the industrial revolution and the rise of the middle class, he says, ‘the poet seemed to have no place. For Gautier’s generation [the poet Gautier lived from 1811 to 1872], the bourgeois had already become the enemy; but one took a lively satisfaction in fighting him. By the end of the century, however, the bourgeois’s world was going so strong that, from the point of view of the poet, it had come to seem hopeless to oppose it ... one simply did one’s best to ignore it, to keep one’s imagination free of it altogether. The poets of the end of the century, when they happened to be incapable of Naturalism or of social idealism ... were thus peculiarly maladjusted persons.’ |
This piece first appeared in a much shorter form |
Jacket 3 — April 1998
Contents page This material is copyright © John Tranter and Jacket magazine 1998 |