Lightning by Arthur Rimbaud (1873)

The work of man! THAT is the explosion that, now and again, illuminates the depths of my abyss.

"Nothing is vanity! And, as for science, FORWARD HARCH!" That is the cry of the modern Ecclesiastes (for example, EVERYONE), for all the world to hear. And still the bodies of the wicked and slothful are piled up in the hearts of the People. Let the prayer gallop forward while the lightning roars.

I can see it clearly; it's all very simple. The weather is too hot (Ed: in Hell?) You'll have to get along without me. After all, I have my duty to perform, and, as is currently the modern fashion, I plan on shirking it.

My life is useless! Forward fakers, we'll all be filthy! Our existence will be a sheer delight, dreaming up our monstrous loves and fantastic planets. We'll piss and moan about everyone in the world: clowns, paupers, artists, charlatans--priests!

(Upon my hospital bed was that the smoke of incense I smelled wafting over me, as I collected the sacred aroma, confessor, martyr?)

I recall the lousy education of my infancy. What of it? Shall I live to be twenty? Others have lived as long.

No! No! Presently, I rebel against death! The frivolous work of a single lifetime would disturb the proud soul that beats within my breast, leaving me a creature in agony!

And after--OH!--Upon us, eternity would not have been invested without return.