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45THE WANDERER (An Apologia)

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  • jmandeville@webtv.net
    Jul 1, 2001
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      FOOLISH were it in us to attempt following him, even from afar, in this
      extraordinary world-pilgrimage of his; the simplest record of which,
      were
      clear record possible, would fill volumes.
      Hopeless is the obscurity, unspeakable the confusion.


      [RIMBAUD] GLIDES from country to country, from condition to condition;
      vanishing & reappearing, no man can calculate how or where.


      THROUGH ALL quarters of the world he wanders, & apparently through all
      circles of society.


      IF IN ANY scene, perhaps difficult to fix
      geographically, he settles for a time, & forms connections, be sure he
      will snap them abruptly asunder.


      LET HIM sink out of sight... in some European capital, you may next find
      him as Hadjee in the neighborhood of Mecca.


      IT IS an inexplicable Phantasmagoria, capricious, quick-changing; as if
      our
      Traveller, instead of limbs & highways, had transported himself by some
      wishing-carpet, or Fortunatus' Hat. [...]


      SO THAT, from this point, the [Poet] is more of an enigma than ever.


      IN figurative language, we might say he becomes, not indeed a spirit,
      yet
      spiritualized, vaporized.


      [RIMBAUD] vibrating everywhere between the highest & the lowest levels,
      comes into contact with public History itself. [...]


      IF WE ASK now, not indeed with what ulterior Purpose, for there was
      none,
      yet... in what mood of mind, the
      [POET] undertook & prosecuted this world-pilgrimage,--the answer is...
      "A nameless Unrest," says he, "[that] urged me forward; to which the
      outward motion was some momentary lying solace."


      "WHITHER should I go? My Loadstars were blotted out; in that canopy of
      grim
      fire shone no star.
      Yet forward must I; the ground burnt under me; there was no rest for the
      sole of my foot. I was alone, alone!"


      "EVER TOO the strong inward longing shaped Phantasms for itself: towards
      these, one after the other, must I fruitlessly wander. A feeling I had,
      that for my fever-thirst there was & must be somewhere a healing
      Fountain."


      "TO MANY fondly imagined Fountains, the Saints' Wells of these days, did
      I pilgrim;
      to great Men, to great Cities, to great Events: but found there no
      healing."


      "IN STRANGE COUNTRIES, as in the well-known; in savage deserts, as
      in the press of corrupt civilization, it was ever the same: how could
      your
      Wanderer escape from-- his own SHADOW?"


      "NEVERTHELESS still Forward!"


      "I FELT as if in great haste; to do I saw not what. From the depths of
      my own
      heart, it called to me, Forwards!
      The winds & the streams, & all
      Nature sounded to me, Forwards!
      I was even, once for all,
      a Son of Time."

      ______________________________________
      --THOMAS CARLYLE, precognizantly evoking the spirit of "Son of Time"
      Arthur Rimbaud, in SARTOR RESARTUS (1833-4).