هنري ميللر يخون رامبو
ميللر بيحاول توضيح إنه شبه رامبو
:D


وسعت منك يا برنس


n   المفروض الكتاب يبقي إسمه ميللر و زمن القتلة n

A study of Rimbaud as autobiography: “How true, that activity is not life! Where is life, then? And which is the true reality? Certainly it cannot be this harsh reality of toil and wandering, this sordid scrimmage for possessions?”

exceptional look at the tortured poet Rimbaud - Miller has a lot to say that is relevant to our times- good read!

This brief gem will remind or teach anyone of the loftier and more arcane archetype of the poet. Written in awe it translates only that. Like Miller and unlike Rimbaud, I too hit my stride late and the idea of a talented youth abandoning all seems strange. But what does the concept of mastery present to one so young? The mystery of Rimbaud is to start as a revolutionary in lit, an icon of modernity, and then to walk away disappointed into the wilderness to waste away. But here I think Miller does not understand that, while in awe, he too has failed to see the volition of the poetic. Just arriving into his own success, Miller can't accept a life without literature, it is his sacrificial object and late in his life he attained the altar. Rimbaud ' s success, being able to shape his own language out of a rejection of formality, is the same as his egress, the sublimate himself into the desert sands of oblivion. Miller fancies himself a rebel but his desire to be important kept him in parties, and undoubtedly happier. But he does miss much, he has a theory of modernity all too fashionably near future, to yeild us any surprises to forward (a sidenote reminder that eternal truths yeild more memories than dire short term predictions). Still, he understands enough of the poet to revere the impossible challenge of responding to rather than naturally being carried over by the waves of social being. Miller has taught generations on the rewards of facing these. He extracts gem after gem to string through the pages of this thin book, and translates no small distillation of Rimbaud's wisdom of action, curiously never refined into presence of mind... Through enthusiasm and emulation as all readers to some degree do, Miller among them is the very best kind of reader, and he reminds us that however absurd, or costly, there is a choice regarding freedom that most of us would dare not take, indeed might deny in order to conceal from ourselves the abandonment and tremors it's presence inspires in us.

This book is less of a critical work about  Rimbaud and more of a just regular  Henry Miller book. Miller rants, raves, goes off on biographical (and autobiographical) tangents, and talks about his personal experiences reading Rimbaud. He writes ecstatically, as usual, and in so doing writes a fitting study of the guy. Other books about Rimbaud will certainly be more informative, and more scholarly, and more in-depth, but this book, despite its shortcomings in those areas, certainly wins the prize for most entertaining.

Awful. Really bad. Ranting and raving, supposedly about Rimbaud, everything and nothing. Miller fancied himself a follower or admirer of the French poet. Disorganized, rambling. I like Rimbaud's famous poem, A Season in Hell and Miller's famous novel, Tropic of Cancer. But this is tripe. An occasional florish of imaginative prose.

Дивно красивая ода Артюру Рембо довольно большого размера. Автор подмечает свои сходства с Рембо, пересказывает его и свою биографии, рассуждает об истории и искусстве, обильно славословит гения. Миллер плевать хотел на хронологическую последовательность, иногда повторяется, скачет от темы к теме, но стыдить его за это язык не поворачивается. Так и было задумано, более того, я вынужден сказать: так и должно быть, хоть мне такой подход к конструированию текста и не близок. Проза, наполненная поэзией. Приятное чтение, пусть и затянутое.

The most frustrating thing in this book is the many times that Miller quotes Rimbaud in French, with no translations. Some of these quotes are several lines long, and Miller seems to make major points based on these quotes. But I don't speak French and couldn't understand a single one. Because of this, I'd say this book is really only worth it if you either speak French or have the time/desire to translate every single one of these quotes, and there are a lot. I would like to see an edition of this book where those quotes are translated -- they could be footnoted to not disturb the original text.

I found the speculation on why Rimbaud quit writing to be among the more interesting parts of this study. Another interesting bit is where Miller compares Rimbaud to Van Gogh, as the two were nearly the same age and lived almost exactly the same length of time.

Am I glad I read this? I'm not quite sure. Rimbaud is definitely a fascinating character, and I was hoping for more insight into him from this book. I surely would have gotten more out of if if I could understand the French quotes. Maybe one day I'll get around to reading a real biography of him.

I read this book twice around 1981 and I am reading it again now in 2023 because it is the only book I have come across about Rimbaud that discusses in length the traveling adventures of Rimbaud after he quit his intellectual career at the young age of 17 or 18
According to Henry Miller, Rimbaud went on hiking crossing the border with Germany to continue to Italy. He also alledges that Rimbaud joind the Dutch navy in order to travel to far places, and that he deserted by jumping in the ocean. When I read this book back then, I took everything like a gospel, however, forty years later I realized that I have not read anything like that about Rimbaud except in Miller's book and I couldnt imagine any books published about Rimbaud's intinerary after he abandoned the literary scene in France in 1872. No one knew actually where he was in those days except his sister Isabelle with whom he exchanged letters when He was living in Ethiopia.
For the first time in my life I am questioning the infallibility of Henry Miller's narration.

لطالما عرفت عقلي في كلمات هنري، يعرف كيف يلمس ويخاطب عقل المرء. كنت كلما أنهيت كتابًا له شعرت بأني تركت داخله عقلاً ومضيت، وكأني قتلت عقلي بعدما أحييته، وتركته قبرًا لعقلي واندهاشاته. عندما سقط هنري في جحيم آرثر رامبو؛ سحبنا كلنا معه.

there definitely is a "boyish hero worship evident" in this one (as my friend Nicole put it) but that is perfect for someone like myself who is prone to that sort of thing. i was an easy sell considering the fact that I am in the latter stages of a cliched Rimbaud phase and that I had just recently read Tropic of Cancer. It was a double whammy. you know these guys. ice cream is something. you can eat it if you want.

Whatever man suffers as an individual all men suffer as members of a society.
"Who dies not before he dies is ruined when he dies." - Jacob Boehme

We see Rimbaud victimized by the illusion that freedom can be obtained by external means (Gurdjieff The Work inner not outer).

The law of the universe dictates that peace and harmony can only be won by inner struggle. The little man does not want to pay the price for that kind of peace and harmony; he wants it ready-made, like suit of manufactured clothes.

Freedom is bound up with differentiation. Salvation here means only the preservation of one's unique identity in a world tending to make every one and every thing alike. This is the root of the fear. Rimbaud stressed the fact that he wanted liberty in salvation. But ONE IS SAVED ONLY BY SURRENDERING THIS ILLUSORY FREEDOM. The liberty he demanded was freedom for his ego to assert itself unrestrained. That is not freedom. Under this illusion one can, if one lives long enough, play out every facet of one's being, and still find cause to complain, ground to rebel. It is a kind of liberty which grants one the right to object, to secede if necessary. It does not take into account other people's differences, only one's own. It will never aid one to find one's link, one's communion, with all mankind. One remains forever separate, forever isolate.
All this has but one meaning for me - that one is still bound to the mother. All one's rebellion was but dust in the eye, the frantic attempt to conceal this bondage.

And for the rebel above all men it is necessary to know love, to GIVE IT even more than to RECEIVE IT, and to BE IT even more than to GIVE IT.
GIVE > RECEIVE
BE > GIVE

He cannot live with his ideals unless these ideals are shared, but how can he communicate his ideas and ideals if he does not speak the same language as his fellow man.

Every one has his troubles, whether he is a genius or not. Yes, that is true too. And nobody appreciates that truth (appreciate = understand = knowledge + being) more than the man of genius.

The brotherhood of man man consists not in thinking alike, nor in acting alike, but in aspiring to praise creation. The song of creation springs from the ruins of earthly endeavor.

What we want are victims of life to keep us company in our misery. We know each other so well, too well; we disgust one another. But we continue to observe the conventional politeness of worms. We try to do it even when we are exterminating one another...

What we create with hand and tongue is nothing; it is what we create with our lives that counts. It is only when we make ourselves a part of creation that we begin to live.

The strength of the rebel, who is the Evil One, lies in his inflexibility, but TRUE STRENGTH lies in submission which permits one to dedicate his life, through devotion, to something beyond himself.

An artist earns the right to call himself a creator only when he admits to himself that he is but an instrument.

No one has better illustrated than Rimbaud, that the freedom of the isolated individual is a mirage. Only the emancipated individual knows freedom. This freedom is earned. It is a gradual liberation, a slow and laborious fight in which the chimeras are exorcised. The chimeras are never slain, for phantoms are only as real as the fears which call them forth. To know oneself, is to rid oneself of the demons which possess one.

Human Actor/Being vs Human Doing/Re-Actor:
He is not longer an actor but an agent, or a re-agent.