!!.رامبو و بإختصار فظ مجرد متمرد آخر بلا قضية

إن كان لدى أي امرئ، شكوك حول المصير الذي يخبئه مجتمعنا للشاعر
ليقرأ هذا الكتاب ..
كان الكتاب مصدر إلهام لي
و رحم تولد منه الأفكار ..

unable to be oneself, the individual becomes an infinite of personalities.

كتاب مدهش كتبه شاعر عن عذابات شاعر وترجمه بحب لنا شاعر آخر، البطل فيه هو الشاعر حيرته وعذاباته سواء كان هنري ميللر أو آرثر رامبو..
هنري ميللر هنا يكتب عن رامبو بعشق بل بتأليه واضح، يتتبع حيرته عذابه ويحلل ضعفه وخيبته.
كان يحنو عليه وهو يتحدث عنه وكأنه يلعن الحياة الي لم تنصفه، التي جعلته يتساءل عن معناها حتى انهكه التعب ورحل..
في الكتاب نتتبع عذابات وحيرة ورحلة رامبو نحو السلام الداخلي، ذاك السلام الذي لم يحصل عليه وهو حيّ ونرجو كما يرجو ميللر أنه كقدر كل الشعراء ارتفعت اروراحهم أعلى لتظللنا ولتنعم هي بالسلام..
الكتاب ممتاز لمن لديه معلومات أولية عن رامبو، لأنه لا يعطيك سيرة مفصلة عن حياته قدر ما يهتم بسيرة حيرته وقلقه..
لذلك تمنيت أنني قرأت كتاب عن سيرته قبل أن أقرأ هذا، ربما سيكون تفهمي للحيرة والعذابات، شكل آخر.
وربما سأشتم والدة رامبو بقسوة كما فعل ميللر وهو يتحدث عن موت رامبو ودفن أمه له، وراحتها منه تلك العجوز الشمطاء التي ما فهمته يوما، وخذلته دائما!

I like Miller and I love Rimbaud but this whole book was basically like: "Rimbaud's did *this* in his life! Rimbaud was like this!" "Hey whoa I did *that* in my life too and I'm also like that!" slobber slobber slobber

في هذا الكتاب نجد من هنري ميلر تأملاً في حياة رامبو وأشعاره.
يقول عن رامبو : " رجل زمنه الأكثر صدقاً مما كان عليه غوته وشيلي وبليك ونيتشه وهيجل وماركس ودوستويفسكي.."
ثم تأخذ هنري الحماسة ليقول : " ليعلن هذا الشاعر عن نفسه، إن كان موجوداً بيننا، ليرفع صوته!"
" كم يشبه الشعراء كواكب السماء السيارة؟
ألا يبدو أنهم مثل الكواكب على اتصال بعوالم أخرى؟
ألا يخبروننا بأشياء مقبلة وأشياء سحيقة، دفينة في ذاكرة الإنسان الرسية؟
أي مغزى نستطيع أن نقدمه لبقائهم التائه على الأرض، سوى أنهم رسل من عالم آخر؟ "
" لكن شيئاً فيه هزني - يقصد رامبو - أكثر مما فعله شخص آخر "

كتاب لطيف تقييمه : ٣ من ٥

در مدح رمبوی شاعر

"On the poetic corpse of Rimbaud we have begun erecting a tower of Babel. It means nothing that we still have poets, or that some of them are still intelligible, still able to communicate with the mob. What is the trend of poetry and where is the link between poet and audience? What is the message? Let us ask that above all. Whose voice is it that now makes itself heard, the poet's or the scientist's? Are we thinking of Beauty, however bitter, or are we thinking of atomic energy? And what is the chief emotion which our great discoveries now inspire? Dread! We have knowledge without wisdom, comfort without security, belief without faith. The poetry of life is expressed only in terms of the mathematical, the physical, the chemical. The poet is a pariah, an anamoly. He is on his way to extinction. Who cares now how monstrous he makes himself? The monster is at large, roaming the world. He has escaped from the laboratory; he is at the service of any one who has the courage to employ him. The world has indeed become number. The moral dichotomy, like all dichotomies, has broken down. This is the period of flux and hazard; the great drift has set in."

"The screech of the bomb still makes sense to us, but the ravings of the poet seem like gibberish if, out of two billion people who make up the world, only a few thousand pretend to understand what the individual poet is saying. The cult of art reaches its end when it exists only for a precious handful of men and women. Then it is no longer art but the cipher language of a secret society for the propagation of meaningless individuality. Art is something which stirs men's passions, which gives vision, lucidity, courage and faith. Has any artist in words of recent years stirred the world as did Hitler? Has any poem shocked the world as did the atomic bomb recently? Not since the coming of Christ have we seen such vistas unfolding, multiplying daily. What weapons has the poet compared to these? Or what dreams? Where now is his vaunted imagination? Reality is here before our very eyes, stark naked, but where is the song to announce it? Is there a poet of even a fifth magnitude visible? I see none. I do not call poets those who make verse, rhymed or unrhymed. I call that man poet who is capable of profoundly altering the world. If there be such a poet living in our midst, let him declare himself! But it will have to be a voice which can drown the roar of the bomb. He will have to use a language which melts men's hearts, which makes the blood bubble."

Henry Miller, (1949).

My favorite work of Miller's; here cutting to the core of not just the artist's temperament, but instead...their place in the darkness, finding themselves alienated and alone. He relates Rimabud's creativity with his own, and sees and formulates the basis for how a Rimbaud, a Van Gogh, and even a Henry Miller can come about and why. What causes their disposition towards rebellion, towards taboo, and what creates that hightened receptivity to emotional cues? To spiritual cues? To the pulse of the world itself, and their ability to prophesize the future quality of that pulse. Will it flat line? Become thready and erractic? Be barely percentible? These figures had a quality all their own in seeing reality, society, human interaction, in a way which cut right to the core; a way other's around them never did, and never could. Leading to that place of darkness where they were resigned to remain; individuation never fully realized, and a pursuit of rebellion and radicalism in it's place..trying desperatly to feel understood, to feel warmth, and to feel a level of human connection and compatibility which could exist on their level. An ability for their own sense of love to pour outwards and alleviate that dark spiral they found themselves perpetually falling down.

Miller resonates heavily with Rimbaud, as do I. And as such, it is an amazing read to see how closely Miller can track that artistic quality, which Rimabud possessed in droves, and how it can interact and steer a life, often for the worse, but with such a burning intensity that it threatens everything it touches. Questioning how it feels to understand something to such a deep extent, and how to communicate that to those around? Such is the quandry a Rimbaud or a Van Gogh finds himself in, often leading to further self-degeneration, and an early death. Here Miller manages to grow into old age, publish his first work in his 40's, and avoid the bullet in the way Van Gogh did not, while also avoiding the early physical degeneration of Rimbaud himself. He uses these figures as mirrors, to describe his own life, and how he came to resonate with qualities he sees expressed in not just the poet's work, but also in the poet's perception, and in his life as well. The study of genius for what it is, in it's faults, and it's tragedies, and not in the idealistic way often expressed within literature and our own popular culture. The genius as burden, as an overwhelming handicap meant solely to endure, and yet never alleviate. A man outside of time. One feels hints at Spengler intermixed within Miller as well, and as such it is a reading on modernity and cyclical change inhabitated by certain people able to perceive it's minute shifts. And their reaction and ultimate response to it; a Rimabud, a Nietzsche, a Verlaine...how did they cope, and did they challange that place in history they occupied, or did they sucumb under it's weight? An interesting question to ask throughout the read...

Sometimes you need to get out of your comfort zone, and with this I did, big time. It was recommended to by by a friend, and so I put it on my Amazon wish list, after which a far-away and never-met Facebook friend got it for me as a birthday present.

First of all: I am quite an analytical person, and never have seen anything in poetry. Also I do not listen to texts from songs, I listen to the music. So maybe I lack the background and experience to appreciate books like this work by Miller. But here are my observations and impressions.

I understand that comparisons, hyperbole and symbolism can sometimes work to clarify the point an author wants to make. But when a book consists only of comparisons, hyperbole and symbolism I get irritated, as it is not anymore supporting the aim of the author to communicate his ideas, but much more makes the impression of being an attempt to impress and confuse.

Also Miller seems very fond of Dialectical contradictions, I started counting them per page. Now and then this form can be powerful, but if every second sentence contains such forms it gets boring and counter productive.

Interesting that Miller included lots of passages in original French. Nice to practice after many years, but not really helpful in conveying his message.

The book is about a prodigy French poet who writes until he is 18 and then "looses it". I could imagine the firm of a literary biography would work and would make sense. The form that Miller choses (what form is it?) makes me lose the message, or not getting it.

As admitted in the beginning: I am fully aware that I may not have the "equipment" to enjoy this kind of books. In that case this review is more about me than about Miller. But aren't reviews always a lot about the reviewer?

كتاب بسيط يحكي عن كل مايخص حياة الشاعر آرثر رامبو

ابدع الكاتب في الوصف
واطال فيه

Miller encuentra similitud entre Rimbaud y él. Sus infancias, la psicología de sus madres, su necesidad de salir del lugar donde nacieron, el desempeño de trabajos manuales; la falta de empatía con sus semejantes. Todo eso le lleva a estudiar a fondo al poeta francés al que años atrás ignoró. Un ensayo que no busca la profundidad en la obra del autor su no la superficie de su intensa vida.
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