What follows is the work of a young--very young--man, whose life came together by hook and by crook; motherless, landless, heedless of everything already too well known, fleeing the threat of any moral impingement, like many sorry young men before him. But so annoyed and troubled was he that he made for death like it was some sort of terrible, fatal shame. Never having known a woman's love--however hot-blooded--his heart and soul and all his strength had their origins in strange, sad missteps. The following dreams--his loves!--that came to him in beds or along streets, can, as they play out, perhaps be seen as having religious connotations; perhaps they will remind readers of the endless sleep of the fabled Mohammedan--brave, and circumcised! But this strange suffering holds an uncomfortable authority: one can't help but sincerely desire that this Soul--lost in our midst and wishing death, or so it seems--find true comfort at that ultimate instant and, then, find itself worthy.

                                                                                 A. Rimbaud