A small pilgrimage
Saying hello from the trail of Rimbaud
It is Monday morning in Paris. I have already had my black coffee, a baguette and hot lemon and water. I am finishing a Rimbaud related project with Gallimard that I will share in the coming months. To prepare for our upcoming month of Rimbaud I took a short but meaningful journey with my dear friend Alain to Charleville, where the poet was born and buried. We first drove to Roche to visit the land I am shepherding. I do not like to say I own it, but it is my responsibility. The land belonged to Rimbaud’s mother. Their old farmhouse was bombed by the German’s in the First World War, and the present one below was built from the rubble at war’s end.
I always feel very emotional approaching the land as it is here where he wrote most of A Season in Hell and where he spent some of his last days in terrible pain after the amputation of his leg.
It was Earth Day and we stopped along the road to admire the signs of burgeoning spring, lilacs and the fields of mustard flowers. Alain and I drove to Charleville and strolled about in the light rain, passing the museum that houses some of his humble belongings, a wall reproducing his manuscript of his magnificent poem Voyelles, and paying our respects by the family grave. All of these places and their history will be expanded in our celebration of the 150th anniversary of A Season in Hell. As always I wish to thank all my founding members and subscribers and welcome new subscribers. Wishing everyone good health and spirits.
Good morning! Thank you for bringing us along. I can’t think of a better shepherd for such land and all that it holds. May you work in peace, love, and comfort.
Ah the terrible child, A Season in Hell blew my mind, so happy you get to go therr Patti! To think he wrote all his work by early twenties and then just the letters of Africa remained. A modernist for the ages.