What remains in my mind of Rimbaud now are just scattered, fragmentary memories. Either bits of poems, or stories of his unrestrained, dissolute life, or photographs from the first few pages of a biography of Rimbaud. After death, of course, everything dissolves into nothingness—all the more so for a poet from a century ago. Rimbaud wished for so many things to die (I think), and he himself truly does linger, like a mist, in my memory. After the modeling competition ended, I skimmed once again through The Complete Works of Rimbaud (translated by Wang Yipei, 2000), and unexpectedly found myself thinking instead of Rimbaud’s mother.

She was probably not poor, but that her life was a bitter one is beyond doubt. Raising several children alone, she also had to constantly deal with all the trouble Rimbaud brought her, and in the end had to face his strange “decrees” (such as the reading lists he later drew up). She must have been a woman of very strong character—one can almost faintly sense the severity and coldness she showed Rimbaud. He may once have been her pride, but the defiance that grew with his age must surely have robbed her of sleep and appetite. And yet it isn’t hard to see that she still carried heavy hopes for him. Rimbaud’s elder brother was clumsy and inept, his beloved little sister died young, and another sibling was a devout religious follower. To this poor mother, Rimbaud was singular, yet precious. What more is there to say of her?

When the ink of China, a pleasant fragrance, spreads black perfumed powder gently over my night—I lower the lamplight, leap onto the bed, and turning sharply round, see you there in the darkness, my girls! My queens! —Rimbaud, A Season in Hell