Rimbaud is the only one with a ghost still more predominant than the myth itself; the only poet that has made his life of 37 small years a riddle. With his angel’s face and body drawn as an illuminated figure, Arthur does not stop pursuing us with his poetic vindication. Especially since 1880, the year he decided to shut away himself in the Abyssinian silence of the underestimated horn of Africa.

Rimbaud, it is us. It is himself, it is the other. A Ardennes teenager who managed so well to celebrate our madness, our discontentment as our genius; that we could ask ourselves if the author final and in a hurry of the Season in Hell was not only come to earth to provoke us.