He wrote in "A Season in Hell": My life is just gentle madness, my eyes are like a sea, but I refuse to be blue.

Because of this collection of poems, I watched the biographical film "Total Eclipse of the Heart" about the life of French poet Rimbaud, also translated as "Total Eclipse of Love".

To be honest, such a charming and gaudy movie title really doesn’t make people want to watch it. However, the actor who played Rimbaud was Leonardo, who was only 21 years old at the time. Needless to say, he was good-looking. , DiCaprio did interpret it well, portraying the essence of the genius Rimbaud in a profound way, like a wild plant growing in a tropical rainforest, a life that is crazy but full of tenderness.

Jean-Nicolas Atier Rimbaud was born in Charleville, France in 1854. He has romantic French origin and is one of the representative poets of French Symbolist poetry. A representative figure of early symbolist poetry and the originator of surrealist poetry. However, Rimbaud himself did not accept the various titles that the world gave him.

Rimbaud's life, like his writing, was full of pain and depression. His words are sensitive and painful, gorgeous and strange, with a strong sense of decadence. The images he depicts are full of hallucinations, between symbolism and surrealism, with too many metaphors and advancements.

Rimbaud himself is also a rare genius and beautiful boy in the world. His whole body is shrouded in a halo of purity. His unfathomable eyes seem to be filled with an ocean, and the secrets of the ocean are hidden in his blue eyes.

Just as Verlaine thought when he saw him for the first time: he was just a child, as if he didn't understand anything. He is like an elf, high-spirited, pure and free.

Bob Dylan sang in his song "You're gonna make me lonesome when you go": "This world is so broken, like Verlaine and Rimbaud." This is just a fair assessment, just like Rimbaud's life.

In September 1871, the 17-year-old Rimbaud sent his "Drunken Boat" to the newly married 26-year-old Verlaine. He quickly received Verlaine's appreciation and response. He held Verlaine's Letters to Paris.

In the days that followed, they gradually became inseparable, talking about everything, chasing creative inspiration, spurning worldly and talentless poets, and toasting to the failure of the Paris Commune. They became close friends with deep souls.

When I went down the ruthless river,

I felt that the tracker no longer controlled my course.

The noisy red men captured them,

stripped them naked, used them as targets, and nailed them to colorful stakes.

I don't care what happens to all these sailors,

I only ship Flemish wheat and British cotton.

When the cry and noise of the trackers dissipated,

The river allowed me to drift freely, carefree.

I ran all winter, ignoring the surging tide

More reckless than careless children

I ran wildly! Even those floating islands

have never experienced such violent oscillations.

The storm blessed me to wake up on the sea,

I danced, lighter than a cork,

On the waves, the eternal cradle of the dead< /p>

For ten consecutive nights, I will never miss the stupid eyes of the traffic light.

The green water penetrated my cedar hull.

The sweetness is better than the sour apples that the child ate.

Washed away the blue wine stains and The stain of vomit washed away my anchor and my rudder.

Since then, I have been immersed in the poetry of the sea

The sea is full of stars, like milk;

Devouring the blue horizon, sometimes it is pale However, it is comfortable,

A meditative corpse floats by in waves,

This piece of blue and absurdity, as well as the fire of the day,

Slow rhythm, dyed in a blink of an eye

The orange-red mold of love is fermenting and bitter,

It is stronger than alcohol and more vast than a harp.

I am familiar with the sky cracking under the electric light,

The waves, the torrents, the tornado; I am familiar with the dusk

and the dawn that excites like a flock of white doves,

I have also seen wonders that people can only imagine!

I have seen the sunset, blackened by mysterious terror,

shining with long purple rays,

rolling away against the waves. The slight trembling,

resembles the chorus in an ancient drama!

I dream of green nights, in the dazzling white snow

A kiss slowly rises to the eyes of the sea,

The circulation of unheard of juices,

The Awakening of Yellow and Blue by the Phosphorescent Singer!

I chased the long wave for months.

It hit the rocks like a crazy cow pen.

How can we imagine the bright future of the Marias? Feet

A face that can tame this asthmatic ocean!

I bumped into incredible Florida,

where leopards have human skin, and leopard eyes are mixed with strange flowers,

where neon lights Tightly, like reins

Harnessing the sea-blue horses under the sea level!

I have seen the fermented swamps, the fishing baskets,

The rotting beasts sleeping among the reeds;

The sudden torrents of water poured in during calm weather,

A distant landscape flows into a vortex like a waterfall!

I have seen glaciers, silver suns, charcoal skies,

pearly waves, treacherous strandings on the brown bottom,

where the twisted bark of trees Emitting a black scent,

A giant snake bitten by bedbugs fell from the tree!

I really want to show the children the swordfish in the blue waves,

Those golden fish, the singing fish;

The foam blessing of flowers I drifted without an anchor,

I was given wings by a breeze that words cannot describe.

The tired sufferer of all the seas around the world?,

Often uses its sobs to gently rock me to sleep,

It lifts to me the dark bouquet , with yellow holes,

I knelt down like a woman and remained still.

Like a floating island filled with golden-eyed birds,

I rocked the bent boat with guano, making the boat noisy.

I sail, and from between the cables in my water,

The floating corpses often drift in backwards to take a nap!

Am I a lost ship, entangled in the blue silk of the sea,

Or am I a phantom that is swept up by the wind and cannot be reached by flying birds?

No ironclad or Hanseatic sailing ship,

No attempt to fish up my sea-drunk skeleton.

I can only float, smoke, and let the purple mist navigate.

I break through the pale red sky wall. On this wall,

the sun grows of moss, the tears of the sky,

This is exquisite jam for a true poet.

I am galloping, covered with electric crescent moons,

Escorting my crazy board are black seahorses;

When July uses sticks to destroy the blue sky Defeat,

The scorching funnels are hanging in the air!

My whole body is trembling, and I can hear it from a hundred miles away

The estrous hippopotamus, the roaring whirlpool,

I will always weave the still blue,

I miss the ancient battlements of Europe!

I have seen an archipelago of stars! There,

The frantic gate of heaven opens to the voyager:

"Are you sleeping in this bottomless night?

Ah, million-dollar golden bird? Ah, the vitality of the future? ”

But I don’t cry anymore! The morning light is so sad,

The whole sun is bitter and the whole moon is bad.

The spicy love fills me with drunken stupor,

Oh, may my keel be broken! May I be buried in the sea!

If I want to look at the water in Europe, I only look at?,

A small dark and cold puddle on the road, in the evening,

A child full of sadness Squatting at the water's edge,

launched a boat as fragile as a butterfly.

Waves, I have soaked up your decadence and exhaustion.

I can no longer follow the tracks of cotton ships.

From now on, I will no longer travel under the arrogant colorful flag. ,

Nor paddling under the terrible eyes of the barge!

●? Rimbaud's work "The Drunken Boat"

Rimbaud's heart is a world beyond our reach. This world spans thousands of years and covers areas that humans can reach or cannot reach. A place that is reached, exists or cannot exist. The confusing smell here is spreading, the sea water is intoxicating the skeleton, the sun is growing on the moss, the hippos in heat are hiding in the ancient battlements of Europe, and the small puddles on the road can be filled with moonlight.

In "Total Eclipse of the Heart", Verlaine's weakness and entanglement are in stark contrast to Rimbaud's determination.

Verlaine financed Rimbaud's life, and Rimbaud inspired Verlaine in his life. Love can easily ignite people's passion and poetry, and Verlaine, who has always been conservative, will also go crazy. When he learns that Rimbaud has left, he rushes into the dark night rain desperately.

Since then, people and poems have been blown away by the strong wind. They both illuminate and almost destroy each other. Just like Faust selling his soul to the devil, although the price is heavy, it is full of charm.

In November 1891, winter came and spring was still far away. Rimbaud, who parted ways with Verlaine, no longer had enough time to wait for the next spring.

This kind of Rimbaud is bitter, sarcastic and unrestrained. As soon as he met Verlaine at the age of 17, he immediately fell into this relationship. They relied on each other, cursed each other, and hurt each other until Verlaine couldn't bear Rimbaud's departure and pressed the trigger and shot Rimbaud. With his right hand, this shocking love that lasted for two years finally ended.

One went to jail and the other disappeared without a trace. Rimbaud returned to the town and wrote "A Season in Hell" alone as a tribute to his former lover. At this point, Rimbaud's career as a poet ended at the age of 19. This incredible second half of his life was filled with a strong desire to perform, not to go deep into life itself, but to experience all lives and become everyone.

Rimbaud met Verlaine for the last time and asked the previous question again: Do you love my body or my soul? Verlaine still gave the same answer: body.

Rimbaud left, determined and free. Never looked back.

Verlaine's twilight years were like a total eclipse of the sun and moon, and the whole world fell into the darkness of loneliness.

His memory of Rimbaud is like the sun shining and will never go out. In his poems, it is Rimbaud's lifelong gains and the sudden loss of a shot.

I still remember that at the end of the film, the old and depressed Verlaine sat alone in the lounge, had two more glasses of absinthe, and a sweet kiss on his palm was followed by eternal sadness and heartbreak. Rimbaud disappeared into Verlaine's hallucinations, like ice and snow melting into flames.

“It’s already autumn.

It’s the season to leave.

Let’s go.

I need the sun.

The sun will heal me.

”