KEY WORDS Rimbaud and Verlaine Rimbaud:Don't expect me to be faithful to you. Verlaine:Why are you so harsh with me? Rimbaud:Because you need it. I am interested in watching Total Eclips because of this dialogue. As it turns out, it really is the essence of the film. The pair of Rimbaud and Verlaine are well-known crazy, apart from the homosexuality itself, the division and harmony between the two are also full of troubles. Until July 10, 1873, Verlaine penetrated Rimbaud's palm, and the latter took him to court in a rage. While Verlaine was physically imprisoned in prison, Rimbaud published a season of Hell, which was tepid at the time. When Verlaine was released after serving his sentence, what appeared in front of him was Rimbaud, who was 19 years old, out of childishness and lost his heart as a poet. Rimbaud visited Verlaine in Stuttgart in March 1875, and the two never saw each other again. Rimbaud's wandering life finally ended at the age of 37 after a long and painful death, and Verlaine's situation during this period was also quite miserable. Only alcohol paralyzed him as always, losing his spirit and broken body. Perhaps that's what makes Rimbaud's death all the more abrupt. Just like the love they once had, when the pain has passed, they thought that time would hand over themselves to eternity, and they found an unhealed wound, which poured out a deep nostalgia. Verlaine: The memory of him is like the sun shining on me, it never goes out. KEY WORDS The sun in the palm of the hand "The sun, the fire of tenderness and life infuses the burning love into the intoxicating soil" - Rimbaud "The Sun and the Flesh" I want the sun! I want the sun! When the young Rimbaud first said these words to Verlaine, who was ten years older than him, the youthful perseverance of the youth was revealed on his face, the curved lips and the frowning eyebrows were endearingly stubborn. The man stared at the twinkling eyes of the young man in front of him with a slightly playful look, probably taking it as the maddened thought of this reckless little poet. However, when he heard the boy's cry in his dreams again and again, when the sea appeared in front of them, the boy almost madly threw off his clothes and rushed into the waves, when the boy hugged him tightly and kissed him His cheeks, when happiness swayed between the bodies of the two like a tide, and when the inner body and the body roared and rushed to the highest peak, he finally understood that the sun would be the life-long mark that accompanies this young man in front of him. Rimbaud engraved the sun in the palm of his lover's hand, and the sharp point of the knife cruelly declared his selfish love. He despised saints, slandered gods, and he stood at the table where poets met, with his legs crossed, and drenched clichés he disdained with a piss. He's a wicked urchin, a rude rascal, a lunatic who is rejected by the upper classes and vilified by the middle class, he's such a man, a genius, who has abandoned the shameless favor of a bitch goddess, believes in the power of the sun and wants to borrow it This man who changed the world with his own hands. The blood of poetry oozes out on the manuscript, flowing through the long white fibers of the manuscript paper, strands and layers, and the sound is so harsh that he howled out in the library out of tolerance. When the long-term madness finally drove them to the cliff, the two who had been separated and separated stood on the verge of collapse. And a bullet from Verlaine ended it all. Rimbaud's palms swayed in the sun, a smile almost sarcastic on his pale cheeks, and he lay in bed, dressed in his freshly packed luggage, his lover--with wailing and begging to hope for him stay with yourself ——At this time, he was sitting on a chair facing the head of the bed, with his trembling arm resting on the back of the chair, and the gun in his hand was aimed aimlessly in the direction of the sun that Rimbaud and him were facing together, as if he could not stand it. Resist the temptation, or maybe the fingers get out of control, the bullet swirls in the direction of the barrel and draws an elegant and funny parabola, like a joke, or an evil revenge, just like that, it runs towards Rimbaud's palm that stretches out to the sun …… boom! The sun bleeds. Pat, pat, splashed the boy's clean forehead, solidifying his slightly surprised expression. He turned his palms over in a maddening manner. The palms were so hot that they were burned to the point of pain. It was clearly the temperature of the sun. The sun is in my hand, but I always feel that I've missed something, but it hurts too much now, I can't remember... KEY WORDS Total Eclipse "My melancholy heart lingers in the stern, my heart is covered with tobacco and they spray in my heart Juice...and then there's the satiated meal when they're done chewing the tobacco and I'm bouncing around for the stomach but what if my heart is devoured when they're done chewing the tobacco, oh, the stolen heart?" -Rimbaud The Heart of a Clown by Rimbaud Undoubtedly the clown of love. He ridiculed Verlaine's love for his wife and his so-called loyalty. He trampled on Verlaine's forbearance for his love, and even insulted him with the harshest words, belittling his double self-esteem as a poet and a man. On the stage of the show, he was lit by the spotlight, and he acted recklessly with the capital of youth, but things were not so good. It felt very much like a pampered princess who was forced to be the lover of a knight who saved her life in the midst of war because her country was on the brink of extinction. And her lover has to pick up his clothes and trousers on the floor beside the bed in the morning after having fun with her, dress up quietly, gently close the door behind him, and walk halfway across the city back to his house, back to the light Lying on the bed waiting for his wife. No one could see the clown crying, even in the end he even forgot how to cry. The curtain fell, and he finally returned to the expressionless doll. So Verlaine had never heard Rimbaud say a single word "love" in her life. However, on that rainy night when Verlaine followed Rimbaud, who was driven out by his father-in-law—perhaps as early as the moment the two passed by for the first time, or fate—it was doomed that Rimbaud would be killed. Trapped by love. For him, one foot into the vortex of love, the other foot is not far from the edge of the dark abyss. That was the love he had put on all his talents and his soul as a poet. He chose Verlaine, he gave him his words, let him control the way he expressed himself, and gave his life to him He, let him support his food and clothing needs, hand over his body and his heart to him, and let him deal with it. Said long ago, "All she can give you is sex." And I'm not. But you chose the former without hesitation between my body and my soul. So Rimbaud, the poet, died. In order to fulfill the love that you owe, I made a sacrifice that is even more sad than death. I no longer write poetry, no longer get carried away with anger, that free soul is finally released and disappears at the end of the sun. And this flesh exists only to atone for the sins it has committed in the past, to atone for you. I believe in God just to convince myself that love for you is not as simple as making love with you or as complicated as writing a poem. The heart was stolen, and the empty chest was whirling in the wind in the canyon. This is the erosion of love with the smell of blood and sweetness.
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