vulgar, gentle and cold. His poems are astonishingly imaginative and creative, and Verlaine is the only one who has discovered the lasting vitality of poetry.
But it is destined to be impossible to be together, because Rimbaud is too sharp and loves freedom too much.
It's can't be endure it everything is endurable.
Verlaine is not willing to leave his perfect wife and living body to follow Rimbaud's soul.
The tears when he found out that Verlaine was still in a relationship with his wife made his heart hurt.
I'm like a weak Verlaine, writing sentences about apples rotting in spring, with a sadness that is not as good as shit in a comfortable life, look at the rude Rimbaud who broke into Verlaine's house, he scare me hiding behind the screen After a jump, I always thought that I was fearless, Rimbaud made me ashamed, and made me no longer ashamed, we always happy, V can finally say that when he is old.
Silence can no longer weave solemnity, solemnity is useless, like a church kicked away by a storm.
Fuck it, it's the truth.
Verlaine has repeatedly asked Rimbaud for confirmation: "I have never loved anyone as much as I have loved you... Tell me, do you love me? Answer me, it is very important to me."
Rimbaud was noncommittal: "You know I like it very much. You... do you love me?"
Verlaine nodded softly and weakly: "Love you."
Rimbaud stared at him: "Put your hand on the table... palm up." He gently stroked Verlaine's hand with the knife , heavily plunged the knife into the palm of that hand. When he was young, he might want to burn his own existence into the soul of the other party through the pain of his body.
R: Then here, in the wilderness, i offer you an archetypal choice, a choice between my body and my soul. Choose. Choose!
V: Your body.
Look, he just wants your body, not your soul. How cruel is this.
At the end, Verlaine, who learned of Rimbaud's death, ordered two glasses of absinthe they had drank together. The green liquor seemed to reflect the smooth cheeks and stubborn lips of the young man sitting on his knees. He still asked him: "Tell me if you love me?" He smiled and replied: "You know I am very fond of you...Do you love me?" Verlaine still responded without resistance: "Yes
" Putting it on the table, the boy slid the knife gently over it, held the palm of his hand, and made a deep kiss.
"After he died, I dreamed of him every night. We were always happy together. Always happy."
In Verlaine's heart, he would rather believe that the young man always loved him tenderly. The marks he carved on his palms and hearts, like the two tumors that were born on his knees, would never be dissipated in his entire life. It's a deadly poison with no cure. He was the dream he didn't want to wake up from, the sadness he was happy with, the wound he would never heal—and the despair he hoped for. There is no tomorrow, only despair. In the dream, he was still that frail boy, smiling at him as he walked forward. That youth, ever young, ever beautiful, was his great and glorious sin.
"I've found it." The boy's voice murmured in the wind, "The place where the sea meets the sky is the sun." He looked back and smiled, scattered in the warm and bright sunlight, "It's eternity."
I found it.
Eternity,
where the sun mingled with the sea.
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