Then he was fascinated by Rimbaud.
Neurotic, destructive, sensitive, selfish, tongue-in-cheek, mighty genius.
He has a Narcissus-like face without the corresponding grace. Oh maybe in Verlaine's eyes he was elegant.
He steals, he runs away, he is aggressive, he wants to destroy everything and build again.
Young and frivolous.
At 16, Rimbaud wrote Ophelia, at 19 Rimbaud wrote “A Season of Hell”, and then at 20, he bid farewell to literature completely and embarked on a career as an arms dealer, a peddler, and a sailor. road.
Then he died in France at the age of 37 after contracting cholera in Africa.
No scruples, rampage guy.
How young, how young, Verlaine fell in love with the radiant youthful passion in his body. I love it too.
The young Leonardo, with thin legs, slender waist, blue eyes, and blond hair, made a beautiful sound on the fence with his hands, walked like a dance, and taunted everything he thought he couldn't keep up things in his footsteps, and then give his money to those poorer than him.
Always dream of the ocean, always dream of the sun, always dream of transcendence.
He is not a man who lives in reality.
Verlaine is too old. Too old to be passionate, even though he was only ten years older than him. He longed for Rimbaud, for his youthful body, for his moving inspiration, how fascinated he was with this terrific body and his radiant mind.
He was crazy for a rare time, and did everything he could to chase this love.
Rimbaud also fell in love with him, hey, sixteen-year-old Rimbaud, a young child, the road in front of him is still too wide, how could he understand Verlaine's desperate sacrifice?
He is going to go to the hills to go to school to bark, he is going to soak in the sea, he is going to see black people in Africa, he keeps saying that he will not be loyal to Verlaine, in fact, he was led by Verlaine on the road of homosexuality, Wei is his real The first lover in the sense.
How could it not be impressed?
Wei's imprisonment, Rimbaud spent two months writing "Hell Season". Leonardo looked at the sun through his wounded hand in the barking woodhouse, the marks of his fingers on his face one after another, like a recurring fence. His eyes were as clear as lake water, until that tear finally fell straight across his face.
He was disappointed with literature. He realizes that he can't change everything, so he gives up everything.
Oh Rimbaud~ Rimbaud who is always tempted, Rimbaud who is unbridled and always free, is the daffodil talking about you? In the last shot, is it you who is running towards the ocean with a white shirt on your back like wings? Are you that Icarus who flew so high that he fell into the sea?
How much I love his poetry, how much I love his face, how much I love his nervousness.
He said: My life is so vast, not only dedicated to strength and beauty.
He said: In the blue twilight of summer, I will walk down the path.
He said: Ophelia, she floated like a great white lily.
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