Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) in conversation with Stan Rogal
Hadn’t I once
had a youth that was lovely, heroic,
fabulous — something to write down on
pages of gold?
— from: A Season in Hell
The invitation arrived in the form of a neatly embossed pasteboard card, inserted in a small square white envelope, lightly scented of lilac. There was neither stamp nor return address on the envelope. The note informed me that I was being offered an exclusive interview with one Monsieur Arthur Rimbaud, flaneur du beau-monde, today, five p.m., second floor lounge, Theatre Passe Muraille.
Well, how elegant, I thought, if not a trifle chi-chi, given the…well...whatever…I mean, times change, as do people, and who was I to judge? The note went on to say that I was also welcome to remain and attend the following life-altering seminar due to take place at seven p.m., sharp, in the main theatre space. No other details were provided, except: No need to RSVP. I assumed that meant that my attendance (at least for the interview), was taken as a given.
Hm, I suppose I could’ve been annoyed at the impertinence; perhaps complained that I had a life, such as it was, and it wasn’t always possible for me to drop everything and be at the beck and call of each and every last-minute request for my professional services. I could’ve been, yes, but I wasn’t. Partly because I didn’t really have a life, per se, partly because I was, as a rule, thrilled to take part in these types of covert interviews, partly because these eleventh-hour opportunities always occurred when I had absolutely nothing else on my calendar, anyway, which can hardly be coincidental, so, in a certain particular fashion, personal to me and me alone, and imbued with some not small measure of (perhaps?) divine forethought and/or intervention. As for the seminar — and since it appeared to be optional — I’d wait until I’d gathered sufficient information before I decided either yea or nay.
It was a typical Toronto October afternoon, cool, cloudy, threat of rain. I dressed suitably for the weather: kicks, jeans, light windbreaker with a hood, shoulder bag. It was a Monday, a day when, traditionally, theatres were dark, which made it possible to rent out the space for private functions. I’d attended plays there several times in the past, and figured it seated around 200 audience members, between the floor and the balcony, so, casual, intimate, yet large enough to offer some sense of accomplishment, if all went well.
I arrived and found the front door half-opened with a wooden stop. I entered, turned right, and ascended the stairs. At the top, I looked over the rail and checked out the stage. It was bare except for some wooden crates and bales of hay pushed against the back wall. There was a microphone on a stand placed front and centre. A poster I’d noticed downstairs had described the current production as a new autobiographical musical that chronicled the extraordinary life of a gay, disabled artist, set to the sounds of original country tunes. I decided that the similar themes of the two events — ie: the play’s protagonist and that of Rimbaud (while swapping country tunes for poems, natch) — were more than fortuitous, though I also supposed it would be too much to hope that the play was actually about and featured Rimbaud, yes? After all, there was the ‘life-altering’ seminar to consider, and how did this event fit with the play? Or with Rimbaud? Or did they fit? I didn’t know. This is what I was curious to discover.
Rimbaud sat at the bar, one pant leg rolled to the knee, a crutch leaned beside him. He seemed to be bending the ear of the bartender, who nodded politely as Rimbaud rambled on, dragging pamphlets from a briefcase on the bar to illustrate whatever it was he had to say. I pulled up a stool beside him and sat, much to the relief of the bartender, who asked what she could do me for, and was off quicker than a new bride’s nightie (as the old saying goes), to fill my request.
I gave the man a casual study. I recalled reading an isolated quote on Wikipedia, apropos of nothing, so far as I could tell, since there was no context surrounding the phrase (which was, curiously, to my mind, written in the present tense): “Arthur Rimbaud maintains a svelte physique with wonderful body proportions, and his stunning and intriguing blue eyes add their unique charm.” I agreed. That and the pale skin, sandy tousled hair and impish grin, though the svelte body was today clothed in a dapper suit at least one size too large. Mistake, I wondered, or strategically designed to add an air of appealing aw shucks naivete and awkwardness to his present persona? The look was a far cry from how he described himself, aged 16, in a letter to school teacher Georges Izambard: “I'm now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I'm working at turning myself into a seer. You won't understand any of this, and I'm almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It's really not my fault.”
He reached out a hand and we shook. He had a firm grip for a slim person. I retrieved my recorder and eased my bag to the ground. Whatever’s on your mind, he said, and folded his hands on the bar. I’m all yours for the next hour and a half or so. All I want to say up front is, this is an exciting new venture for me, and I can’t wait to get started and share my vision with anyone interested.
The bartender dropped two glasses of house red and removed Rimbaud’s empty glass. I hit record.
Stan Rogal: Mr. Rimbaud…
Arthur Rimbaud: Let’s just skip the polite preliminaries, shall we? You know very well who I am, just as I know very well who you are, yes? We’re both professionals, here. We’ve both done our homework. Let’s get straight to the meat of the matter.
SR: (We raised our glasses, tipped them to each other and drank. He spoke perfect English, without a trace of a French accent. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised, as he had picked up several languages in his travels, including German, Spanish, Greek, and, I supposed, some level of proficiency in various African dialects, as he’d spent much time there as a trader. Or maybe it simply came part-and-parcel with the new surroundings. Impossible to be sure). Fine by me. Cheers! Anything in particular? (He spread his brochures in front of me. I barely gave them a glance, preferring to focus my attention on the man of the moment himself).
AR: This is my current passion; my current endeavour: to reach out to people — people such as yourself, people such as our apprehensive bartender friend here (he motioned with a hand and smiled at the woman as she went about her business, listening with half an ear) — untap their hidden potential in order for them to achieve their highest particular level of greatness. (My internal bullshit meter went into high alert at this point. Still, I kept my mouth shut, nodded politely, and allowed him to continue). I ask you, what can be more rewarding than this: helping others, while at the same time, helping yourself to achieve your full potential? It’s a win-win proposition. How does it work, you wonder? It’s simple. (He gently nudged a brochure closer to me. I took a closer look and my brain did a quick double-take at the title, Make It New, in bold black letters, Ezra Pound’s famous injunction taken from the traditional Four Books of Confucian Wisdom, whose original Chinese characters read: sun renew sun sun / renew (like a new tree shoot) / again sun renew — a seventeen syllable haiku — the usual English translation being: if you can one day renovate yourself, do so from day to day, yea, let there be daily renovation. In other (simpler) words, Make It New. Huh, I thought, someone’s done their homework here and covered a lot of bases, from the historical to the literary to the popular. I jumped in and wagged a finger at the brochure).
SR: Is this the name of your, what, enterprise, then?
AR: Yes. (He grinned and raised his eyebrows). Catchy, isn’t it? With its foundations in the late-20th-century attraction toward self-improvement, life coaching encompasses a program of goal-setting and talk-therapy-style sessions aimed at improving an individual’s well-being. At Make It New, we take a science-backed approach in helping individuals, such as yourself, find a life coach. The approach describes our “Complete Person Paradigm,” a methodology that spans 43 separate dimensions to help you become your best self. Once you’ve taken the assessment, you’ll be matched with a suitable life coach, specific to your needs.
SR: (I was immediately struck by the number 43. Why not 40 or 45 separate dimensions? To make the program sound more precise, more scientific? Hm). Uh-huh. Tell me, what is a life coach, exactly? (I sipped my wine).
AR: (He tapped his nose with an index finger). A life coach is someone who counsels clients through personal or career challenges. A life coach helps guide clients to reach their ultimate goals. This means career, personal development, relationships, nutrition, divorce, grief, and even financial wellness. Sometimes, you come to a crossroads in life. It might appear in the form of a quarter-life crisis or existential questioning. It might show up at the heels of a big career change or commitment. It might even present itself when you’ve already decided to start over in life, but you’re not sure where to go next.
SR: Is this why you quit writing poetry at age twenty?
AR: I’m sorry, what? (He huffed, gave his head a fake shake, and took a large slug of wine).
SR: You were at a crossroads in life.
AR: I wasn’t at a crossroads, I was at a dead end. My lover, Paul Verlaine, in a raging state of drunken delirium, had shot me in the wrist, been arrested, and (he raised a hand and cocked his head), even though I was willing to drop all charges, when the authorities discovered that he was a fairy, well, they slapped him in cuffs and sentenced him to two years hard labour. Figuring I was next, I hauled ass out of Dodge, and returned home, tout-de-suite, whereupon I begged my mother to pay to publish my just-completed manuscript, A Season in Hell. The collection went over like the proverbial lead balloon. It was ridiculed and reviled by the Paris so-called literati, while I, as a scruffy, filthy, ill-mannered, drugged-out, ruffian, homosexual tart was treated worse than a leper. I managed to gather enough strength to complete a final collection, and even considered self-publishing it, The Illuminations, but couldn’t take the abuse anymore and fled the country for what I thought would be greener, more accepting, pastures.
SR: Right. In your poem, Alchemy of the World, you wrote about poetry in this way: “It affected my health. Terror loomed ahead. I would fall again and again into a heavy sleep, which lasted several days at a time, and when I woke up, my sorrowful dreams continued. I was ripe for fatal harvest, and my weakness led me down dangerous roads to the edge of the world, to the Cimmerian shore, the haven of whirlwinds and darkness. I had to travel, to dissipate the enchantments that crowded my brain.” From this, some might suspect that you were undergoing symptoms of serious depression.
AR: And why wouldn’t I be seriously depressed, surrounded and kicked about as I was, by pretentious philistine savages and puerile poetasters?
SR: Uh-huh. Albert Camus, a French philosopher and writer after your time, once hailed you as “the poet of revolt, and the greatest.” He later wrote a scathing account of your resignation from literature — and from revolt itself — claiming there was nothing to admire, nothing noble or even genuinely adventurous, in a man who committed “spiritual suicide,” became a “bourgeois trafficker” and consented to the materialistic order of things.
AR: Is that a fact? Fucking asshole. Sounds like someone with a well-paid job, living in a nice, cozy, apartment — maybe with an attractive wife and a couple of adorable tow-headed kids and a floppy-eared dog, I wouldn’t doubt — in the Rive Gauche of Paris. Where does he get off? Do you want to hear something? (He leaned his face into mine and jabbed his clenched fist at the air). My fucking doctor — with me on my death bed, mind you, dying of bone cancer, my right leg already amputated due to a misdiagnosis of arthritis, then tubercular synovitis, then a neoplasm of the thigh, but no, cancer, wherein the use of an artificial leg inflamed the stump and using a crutch caused me severe neuralgia in my right arm and shoulder as well as my good leg, now lying there in bed, flat on my back, the left half of my body paralyzed, in severe pain, delusional, thin as a length of string — my fucking doctor had the nerve to ask me why I had stopped writing poetry at so young an age. What? Can you imagine? Just one more insensitive, inconsiderate, pompous, prick asshole. I tell you, never let the bastards take a piece of you, they keep coming back for more. Eat, eat, eat. That’s all they do. Until there’s nothing left. (He pulled a face and chomped his teeth). Anyway, I told him point blank: because poetry is piss. Then, I died. Good riddance.
SR: You once wrote, “For a long time I boasted that I was master of all possible landscapes and I thought the great figures of modern painting and poetry were laughable.” Do you recall?
AR: Of course, I recall. The so-called great figures still had their roots planted firmly in the muck of the past. They were copies of copies, still blissfully languishing beneath the sacred feet of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and the like. Look at The Sorrows of Young Werther, the story of a young man’s extreme response to unrequited love, a cloying enough theme in itself, but watch as the bathetic slips to the pathetic in short order when the ill-fated romantic couple blubber over a poem by Ossian, not even a real poet, but a sham character, a fake, a phony, created by one James Macpherson, a Scotsman, to hoodwink a gullible public, including the youthful Goethe. (He pressed both fists to his heart and quoted in a weak trembly voice). “I sit in my grief: I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead.” (He moaned, dropped his head, then raised it again). And elsewhere, “But the time of my decay is approaching, the storm is nigh that shall whither my leaves. Tomorrow the traveler shall come, he shall come, who beheld me in beauty: his eye shall seek me in the field around, but he shall not find me.” (He let out a groan). Just fucking shoot me. (He formed a hand into a gun, held it to his temple, and pulled the trigger, pow!) It goes on like this for pages. Unrelenting agony. Characters given to killing loved ones by mistake, and dying of grief, or of joy, whatever. The landscape drowned in eternal mist, illuminated by a decrepit sun or by ephemeral meteors, it is a world of greyness. Meanwhile, the would-be lovers weep profusely at the various poetic ordeals and compare them with their own. Disgusting. And how else to end it but to have young Werther commit suicide with a pistol given him by his beloved, which she obtained deceitfully from her husband. To make matters worse, even though he shoots himself in the head, it takes him another twelve hours to die. Enough time to recite more god-awful poetry, pound more chests, shed more tears. Please. The poem totally self-indulgent and completely unnecessary.
SR: (It struck me that, for a guy who claimed not to give two good shits about poetry, he seemed to have a lot to say on the subject). The book caused quite a stir at the time.
AR: Yes, Sturm und Drang. (He rubbed his hands together gleefully and drank more wine). The novel made the twenty-four-year old Goethe famous overnight; an instant success and a celebrity. It also started the phenomenon known as “Werther Fever,” which caused young idiotic men throughout Europe to dress in the same clothing style described for Werther in the novel, and accounted for a large number of these same young men to shoot themselves using a similar-type pistol. Often a well-thumbed copy of the book was discovered at the scene of the suicide. Because of this, the book was banned in Denmark and Italy, the result of which — people being what they are, tickled by the sensational and perverse — resulted in even more publicity, and, thus, even higher book sales. Of course, certain business types were quick to turn this thoroughly maudlin occurrence into a profit gaining venture. A line of young Werther clothing, naturally, from the shoes up to the hat, as well as Art prints, illustrated posters and ceramic mugs, pistol replicates, and even a perfume were produced. Goethe himself, to his credit, while enjoying the early recognition, soon deplored the whole merchandising element and, as he grew older, denounced the entire Romantic movement as (he made air quotes with his fingers) “everything that is sick in the world.”
SR: Critics have argued that the theme of protest is evident throughout your collection, The Illuminations; protest against almost everything the society in which you lived had to offer.
AR: Yeah, I think I may have shot my wad on that front. Fuck this, fuck that… Pissing into the wind for the most part. I mean, who cared in the long run? Who even noticed? Funny thing though… (he sipped his wine), I remember that I wrote most of those poems from sometime in 1872 into 1873, which was probably the happiest year of my relationship with Verlaine. Of course, the affair was wild and vagabond-like, spiced by an assortment of wine, absinthe, gin, beer, opium and hashish… still... Huh! What goes on in a person’s brain, yes? Well, some person’s brain. I should’ve been writing prettier, more contented verse, not…you know... (He grinned and fluttered his hands around his head). Unholy madness.
SR: What about: “For Helen embellishing saps conspired in virgin shadows and impassive radiance, in astral silence. The summer heat was entrusted to mute birds and the requisite indolence, to a mourning barge beyond price among bays of dead loves and sunken perfumes. // After the moment of the woodcutters’ wives air, to the murmur of torrent below the ruined woods, to the cattle-bells in the echoing valleys, and the cries of the steppes.”
AR: Y’see? Almost pretty, though hardly contented. A pastoral setting fraught with death and disturbing noises. (He grimaced and shook his head).
SR: Later poetry movements were greatly influenced by The Illuminations. The Dadaists, The Symbolists, The Surrealists all praised your ability to write in abstractions and impossibilities.
AR: Too little too late, I’m afraid. Faint praise that wouldn’t afford me a cheap cup of coffee at a local bistro, never mind a beer. No, even if I hadn’t abandoned poetry, it had abandoned me, and not without fucking me royally up the ass in the process, if you’ll excuse the obvious sexual reference. (He tipped his wine glass toward me and drained it). Besides — as you appear to be so fond of using my own words — you’ll also remember that I wrote “It seemed to me that everyone should have had several other lives as well.” It was time for me to pursue another life. Which I did as a coffee trader and gun runner in Africa, and which I’m now doing as a representative for Make It New. And you can be a part of this exciting venture. Did you know that as a life coach you can earn upwards of two hundred dollars an hour? Sure beats a poke in the eye with a pointed stick, doesn’t it. (He pushed his glass away and a fresh glass arrived).
SR: Are you a life coach?
AR: In training. Think about it. How can you sell someone on the value of coaching if you’re not paying for coaching yourself?
SR: Valid point. So, let me see if I’ve got this right. You pay for an assessment, then, you get assigned a life coach based on that assessment, who you then pay some extravagant amount of money to give you advice on certain personal issues. (Rimbaud nodded). And if you yourself want to be a life coach, you pay for that training as well. I suppose there’s some sort of certificate at the end?
AR: Yes. Given by the World Life Coaching Cooperative, an industry worth somewhere in the neighbourhood of 5 billion dollars.
SR: It’s regulated, I imagine, by the government?
AR: Not at this time, no. Too much bureaucracy, too much red tape. Besides, what do governments do except limit freedom, destroy creativity, and tax the hell out of anyone trying to earn an honest dollar?
SR: (I had to admit, I pretty much agreed with him on his evaluation). I see. And how much does this entire procedure cost?
AR: (He waved his hands in the air). Forget the cost. Don’t even think about the cost. The cost is irrelevant and inconsequential compared to the benefits. I mean, how do you put a price on something that is both life-affirming and financially beneficial to all parties involved? You can’t.
SR: And yet, someone, I expect, has.
AR: A pittance, believe me. Cheap at double the price. Think about it not as an expense, but as an investment in your future. Plus, if you sign up ten friends to take the assessment, or five friends to take the life coach course, you get your money fully refunded — less 10% service fees — as well as a 20% discount on further training.
SR: There’s further training?
AR: Of course. Situations change. There’s always more to learn in order to better oneself. Do professional ballplayers quit practicing just because they’ve made the big leagues? No. In fact, they practice more, with hired personal trainers. We’re no different.
SR: (It almost made sense, though the terms ‘Ponzi Scheme’ and ‘Pyramid Scheme’ did pop to mind, perhaps due to the fact I’d been burned in the past attempting to sell seats in a metaphorical airplane that would lead me to being the pilot and collect the accumulated fares. Meanwhile, the plane was doomed from the outset to crash and burn eventually, taking all remaining passengers and their hard-earned investments with it). And how many people have you enlisted so far?
AR: So far, none. But I just arrived on the scene. I’m still feeling my way around, still learning the ropes. Though I’m hoping my luck will change tonight. I’m told I’ll be addressing a full house, and who can resist a life-affirming pitch from an attractive, charming, one-legged young man leaning on a crutch with an inspiring tale to tell? I might even shed a tear. (He dragged a fingertip down his cheek). Don’t worry, I’m joking. Sort of.
SR: Uh-huh.
AR: Can I sign you up as my first? (He pulled a pen from a jacket pocket).
SR: I think I’ll take a rain check.
AR: You’re making a huge mistake.
AR: Maybe. (I downed my wine and packed up).
AR: Coming back for the seminar?
SR: I don’t think so.
AR: It’s an opportunity of a lifetime. Such opportunities don’t present themselves very often.
SR: I’ll take my chances. As my mother always said, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Meanwhile, I wish you all the best in your new endeavour.
AR: Too bad. Your loss. Though I’m not about to argue with your mother. I had one once myself. But that’s another story for another time. (He shrugged, stacked his brochures, then noticed he was being eyed by the bartender. He took a brochure and motioned her over with it, placing it in her outstretched fingers). What do you say? Make it new. Help yourself by helping others. A win-win situation.
I took a final glance over my shoulder. I had to remember that the young Rimbaud had been, in fact, a successful coffee dealer in Harar, Ethiopia, and only the third European ever to set foot in the city, and the first to do business there. He only quit because the company he worked for refused to give him a raise. After a disastrous failure trying to sell old rifles to the king of Shewa, he established his own coffee business in Harar. The explorer Jules Borrelli and the merchant Armand Savouré, who he hosted for a spell, both described him as secretive about his prior life, living with simplicity, taking care of business with accuracy, honesty and firmness. Rimbaud, a competent, successful businessman? Well, why not. Earlier he had written, “A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.” I had to admit, sitting at the bar, chatting with the bartender, plying his trade, drinking his wine, he appeared happy. Maybe this time, in this life, things would work out differently for him. Maybe. I hoped so. Though I couldn’t prevent myself thinking about that damned airplane I recalled earlier, dropping out of the sky, all passengers aboard scrambling madly to reach the empty pilot’s seat, spiralling rapidly toward the ground, a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving. I gave my head a shake. Make It New? Or the same old con in different clothes?
Outside, people began to line up at the theatre’s front door. Well, what do you know? I guess H.L. Mencken was right when he said no one ever lost money underestimating the intelligence of the American public. They looked primed and ready. “Attention passengers. This is your pilot speaking. Please put your seats in the upright position and fasten your seatbelts. We are cleared for take-off. We hope you enjoy the flight. Attention passagers. Ici votre pilote. Veuillez redresser vos sièges et attacher vos ceintures. Nous sommes autorisés à décoller. Nous espérons que vous apprécierez le vol.”
Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto along with
his artist partner Jacquie Jacobs and their pet jackabee. His work has appeared
almost magically in numerous magazines and anthologies. The author of several
books, plus a handful of chapbooks. Currently seeking a new publisher:
anyone??? Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and former coordinator of the popular
Idler Pub Reading Series.
