Rimbaud for my subscribers
On his birthday, wrestling with A Season in Hell
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By divine stroke Arthur Rimbaud was chosen, lifted and cast aside. He dusted himself off, avenging angel, his weapon the word. What sublime scraps would he hurl at the future? The answer was partially conceived, a waxing moon, a perfect egg yet to be cracked. His pagan pages, his black book, his thundering sun.
It is likely that the provision…