The genius, the rebel, and the failure.
brianlux
Posts: 41,651
Reading Henry Miller's excellent book The Time of the Assassinsabout the poet Arthur Rimbaud, I recently came across these two enlightening passages:
For all the verve and ebullience he [Rimbaud] displays, for all his willingness to work, for all that he possesses in the way of talent, ingenuity, doggedness, adaptability, he discovers before very long that there really is no place for a person like himself anywhere. The world does not want originality; it wants conformity, slaves, more slaves. The place for the genius is in the gutter, digging ditches, or in the mines or quarries, somewhere where his talents will not be employed. A genius looking for employment is one of the saddest sights in the world. He fits in nowhere. Nobody wants him. He is maladapted, says the world. With that, the doors are rudely slammed in his face. But is there no place for him, then? Oh yes, there is always room at the very bottom. Have you never seen him along the waterfront loading sacks of coffee or some other "necessary" commodity? Have you not observed how well he washes dishes in the kitchen of a filthy restaurant? Have you not seen him lugging bags and valises at the railway station? (pp69-70)
Why is it then I now adore him [Rimbaud] above all other writers? Is it because his failure is so instructive? Is it because he resisted until the very last? I admit it, I love all those men who are called rebels and failures. I love them because they are so human, so "human-all-too-human". We know that God too loves them above all others. Why? Is it because they are the proving ground of the spirit? Is it because they are the sacrificed ones? How Heaven rejoices when the Prodigal Son returns! Is this an invention of man's or of God's? I believe that here man and God see eye to eye. Man reaches upward, God reaches downward; sometimes their fingers touch. (pp109-110)
We never know what great men and women walk our streets carrying with them the lost wisdom we seek or the reason for our pain or the challenge to our indifference.
For all the verve and ebullience he [Rimbaud] displays, for all his willingness to work, for all that he possesses in the way of talent, ingenuity, doggedness, adaptability, he discovers before very long that there really is no place for a person like himself anywhere. The world does not want originality; it wants conformity, slaves, more slaves. The place for the genius is in the gutter, digging ditches, or in the mines or quarries, somewhere where his talents will not be employed. A genius looking for employment is one of the saddest sights in the world. He fits in nowhere. Nobody wants him. He is maladapted, says the world. With that, the doors are rudely slammed in his face. But is there no place for him, then? Oh yes, there is always room at the very bottom. Have you never seen him along the waterfront loading sacks of coffee or some other "necessary" commodity? Have you not observed how well he washes dishes in the kitchen of a filthy restaurant? Have you not seen him lugging bags and valises at the railway station? (pp69-70)
Why is it then I now adore him [Rimbaud] above all other writers? Is it because his failure is so instructive? Is it because he resisted until the very last? I admit it, I love all those men who are called rebels and failures. I love them because they are so human, so "human-all-too-human". We know that God too loves them above all others. Why? Is it because they are the proving ground of the spirit? Is it because they are the sacrificed ones? How Heaven rejoices when the Prodigal Son returns! Is this an invention of man's or of God's? I believe that here man and God see eye to eye. Man reaches upward, God reaches downward; sometimes their fingers touch. (pp109-110)
We never know what great men and women walk our streets carrying with them the lost wisdom we seek or the reason for our pain or the challenge to our indifference.
“The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man [or woman] who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.”
Variously credited to Mark Twain or Edward Abbey.
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jo
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"How I choose to feel is how I am." ~ EV/MMc
"Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness and they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy, or they become legends." ~ One Stab ~
I feel this way everyday at my job. Scrubbing dishes, mopping the floors, foaming milk, or hauling trash to the dumpster. Customers sometimes tell me they are sorry. I think, What are you sorry for? I don't mind doing what I do. I'm necessary. If I didn't do my job no one else would.
Well said, STAYSEA. Every job is important. Some days my job consists of nothing more glamorous than the tedious job of cleaning books, but it's a job that has to be done like all the others.
And our jobs do not necessarily define totally who we are. I wonder if someone at one time saw Cecil Taylor washing dishes in a greasy spoon in NYC in his younger days not realizing they were looking at one of the greatest, most innovative jazz pianist of all times?