Elle aimait trop le bal, c’est ce qui l ‘a tuée.. [Victor Hugo, Fantômes]
Waltz of Death by Gustave Adolf Mossa, 1906
Watercolor and black chalk
from The Minneapolis Institute of Arts
thanks to ubu507
La Mort: Mon ironie depasse toutes les autres! [Death: My irony surpasses all others ! ]
Plate III from To Gustave Flaubert—The Temptation of Saint Anthony, 1889 by Odilon Redon *
more Temptations awaits you @ art of the beautiful-grotesque
Animazione, 1915 by Alberto Martini *
from L’opera grafica di Alberto Martini by Francesco Meloni & Leonardo Sciascia,1975
Sorcellerie by Jan Frans De Boever *
Woman and snake / Femme et serpent, c.1885-90
by Odilon Redon *
Rijksmuseum Kröller-Müller ,Otterlo
from [recently acquired;] Odilon Redon, edited by Carolyn Keay [Rizzoli,1977]
etching, 1898 by Franz Von Stuck *
My hallucinations are endless. This is what I’ve always gone through: the end of my faith in history, the neglect of my principles. I shall say no more about this: poets and visionaries would be jealous. I am the richest one of all, a thousand times, and I will hoard it like the sea.
***
I ought to have a special hell for my anger, a hell for my pride, - and a hell for sex; a whole symphony of hells!
Arthur Rimbaud
Der Todesengel by Alfred Kubin
Carlo Farneti’s illustration for Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal,1935 [see also]
old fave from A Journey Round My Skull
[reminds me of this frontispiece;]
Poet under the influence of hashish
Self portrait drawn w. pen by Charles Baudelaire
reproduced in Les fleurs du mal, Kultura, Beograd, 1970
[this copy I have is especially dear to me since it was a gift from my mum to my dad when they started to date back in 1974]
You are sitting and smoking; you believe that you are sitting in your pipe, and that your pipe is smoking you; you are exhaling yourself in bluish clouds. You feel just fine in this position, and only one thing gives you worry or concern: how will you ever be able to get out of your pipe?
Charles Baudelaire, 1860
thanks to frenchtwist:]
I say one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet makes himself a seer by an immense, long, deliberate derangement of all the senses.
Arthur Rimbaud profile in Paris,1976
by Francis Schklowsky
[ i might even like this more then any of Wojnarowicz’ interventions ]
from Verdeau