absinthe makes the heart grow fonder

Or, the unbrushed, unwashed adventures of French poet Arthur Rimbaud.

Hello, friends!

Two quick link shares before we get into the business of this week’s dirtbag.

First, FAGIN THE THIEF received a starred review from Publishers Weekly, who described it as a “magnificent retelling” (!!) and called Fagin “rarely admirable but surprisingly sympathetic” and “an unforgettable creation.” (!!!) So get excited: February 2025 is the month of Critically Acclaimed Awful Little Victorian Guys.

Second, and in related Dickens Retelling News, I had a fantastic time the other week chatting with the delightful Joe Darowski of the Protagonist Podcast about Barbara Kingsolver’s DEMON COPPERHEAD, which you can listen to here if you like! It’s genuinely one of my favorite books of the past few years, so if you think you might enjoy about an hour of me and Joe getting hype as hell over literary fiction, this episode is for you.

All right, with that housekeeping out of the way, let’s get right into this week’s dirtbag. This story contains most of my favorite things in a historical figure: a torrid love affair, a duel, a dramatic little gay weirdo who is book-smart and life-stupid, a bunch of drugs, wild blasphemy for no earthly reason. So probably it’s no surprise that we’ve finally come around to:

Arthur Rimbaud, the Bad Boy of the Late 19th Century and the Poet I Would Least Enjoy Sharing a Bathroom With

things Rimbaud did not do: 1. brush his hair. 2. give a fuck.

Rimbaud was born in 1854 in Charleville in northeastern France, the second of four children who survived to adulthood. His mother was by all accounts a real piece of work: very strict, very religious, famously against any fun at all. In later life, Rimbaud would refer to her as “la bouche d’ombre,” or “the mouth of darkness.” One does have to wonder if she just seemed strict and rule-abiding compared to the whirlwind of nonsense that was Rimbaud, but all biographies are biased against their subjects’ mothers, so whatever.

Little Rimbaud did a great job in school, but he didn’t enjoy it. When he was nine years old, he wrote a 700-word essay to his mom explaining why he shouldn’t have to learn Latin. This has big “here is the PowerPoint presentation I made explaining why you should let me get a puppy” energy and I find it weirdly endearing. It didn’t work, though, and eventually Rimbaud learned enough classics that he started writing his own poetry.

This little prodigy published his first poem when he was just 15 to critical acclaim, and scholars still think it’s one of his best poems ever. This makes me very mad personally. When I was 15, I was mostly cranking out angsty Draco Malfoy fan fiction set to the lyrics of Linkin Park songs. All I have to say about that is I understand why old-timey authors were constantly burning their personal papers. What trashy garbage was 15-year-old Louisa May Alcott writing? I don’t know, and moreover no one should know.

I’m Homeless. I’m Gay. I’m New in Town.

In 1870, when Rimbaud was 16, Napoleon III entered France into the Franco-Prussian War, and Rimbaud’s small town became consumed with helping out with the war effort. This could not have been of less interest to Rimbaud. As the country got more patriotic, he became more of a problem: drinking, getting into fights, writing poems full of poop jokes, repeatedly running away from home. By October of 1870, he tried to jump a train to Paris. He was immediately arrested and sent home, but the next week he tried again and made it to the city.

Which brings us to a story trope I am always delighted to see in an artist’s biography: little gay small-town kid shows up in the Big City and becomes the country’s weirdest celebrity. Think of 1870–1875 as Arthur Rimbaud’s Chappell Roan Era, if you will. He had no money, big dreams, and one hell of a persona, and he was ready to make sure Paris paid attention to him.

I cannot confirm but I have to assume Céline Dion was standing atop the Eiffel Tower belting “Hymne à l’Amour” as Rimbaud stepped off the train, as this seems like the traditional Parisian welcome for all gays past and present

His first move was to send letters of introduction to all the cool poets and artists in town who he wanted to be friends with. This did not work. Imagine, if you will, being Victor Hugo and receiving a letter from a 17-year-old kid you’d never heard of that said “hi I think you are awesome and I also think I am awesome, here are some of my poems, can we hang out.” I bet Victor Hugo looked at that letter, showed it to eight of his prostitute friends and had a good laugh, then resumed yelling at Napoleon.

But one poet saw Rimbaud’s “please be my friend” poems and was super into them immediately: the 27-year-old poet Paul Verlaine. Verlaine is often remembered in the Lord Alfred Douglas vein as “a guy who had a love affair with a more-famous poet,” but there are several key differences in their stories:

1. Verlaine is actually a very good poet, unlike Lord Alfred Douglas

2. I don’t think Verlaine hated the Jews any more than most 19th century French people, unlike Lord Alfred Douglas

3. This photo of Paul Verlaine exists, and it’s hard to hate unreservedly a man who ever took a photo of himself like this, unlike Lord Alfred Douglas, who could never:

I know he is French but do you not hear him in the most Downton Abbey British accent grumbling “yes yes capital”

Two French Poets in a Hot Tub, Sitting Six Feet Apart Cuz They’re Not Gay

Verlaine read Rimbaud’s poem “Le Dormeur du Val” and was immediately obsessed. He wrote to Rimbaud inviting him to come visit, saying “Venez, chère grande âme, on vous attend,” or “Come, my dear great soul, I await you.” You know, the standard kind of platonic, totally chill invitation you send to all your historically very good friends to ask them over for dinner.

Verlaine and Rimbaud fell for each other immediately, and thus began one of the messiest 19th-century French relationships I am personally aware of. For one thing, Verlaine was already married, to a 17-year-old young woman named Mathilde who did not like Rimbaud even a little bit. One can hardly blame her for this. By this point in his descent into young-adult dirtbaggery, Rimbaud had stopped brushing his hair, was notorious for yelling anti-Napoleon propaganda in the street, kept telling poop jokes, and was taking no pains to be subtle about how he was fucking Verlaine. None of this endeared him to Mathilde.

a caricature of Rimbaud drawn by Verlaine in 1872, in which he looks so much like The Bad Hat from Madeleine that it’s actually distracting

Plus, Rimbaud had a real absinthe problem, and Verlaine—already disposed toward drinking too much—followed him right down this slippery slope into violent alcoholism. In the Broadway musical version of Moulin Rouge, absinthe is the fun time that makes Gay Circus Ringmaster Harold Zidler burst out into a rendition of Sia’s “Chandelier”;¹ in 1870s Paris, absinthe was the not-fun time that spurred Verlaine on to beating his wife so badly she had a miscarriage. Mathilde ran off, but Verlaine talked her into coming back on the condition that he would break things off with Rimbaud.

It will surprise you not at all to learn that Verlaine and Rimbaud did not actually break things off. Instead, they ran away to London together in 1872 and moved into a shitty little apartment where they drank absinthe and smoked opium and talked about poetry and got into fights all the time.

there is enough hat in this photo for three people

Bloom and Gloom

Now, to be clear: both of these people were dirtbags in the purest and most straight-down-the-middle sense of the word. Verlaine was an angry and abusive alcoholic, and Rimbaud was an absolute gremlin weirdo. He did not bathe. He had no table manners. He would save the lice that crawled around in his clothes so that he could throw them at passing priests in the street. One of his poems during this time is on the topic of an angel pissing on God while getting a haircut. This is the dictionary definition of two shitty people making each other so much worse.

And what’s more, pretty much everyone around them knew it. In one of my favorite anecdotes, the painter Henri Fantin-Letour wanted to paint a bunch of famous French poets together, and Rimbaud and Verlaine were prominently featured. This other poet Albert Mérat didn’t realize he’d be in the same painting as them until after the first draft was done. When he saw it, he stormed to Fantin-Letour’s house yelling “I will not be painted with pimps and thieves!” So Fantin-Letour, who didn’t want to start over (relatable), painted over Mérat with a big flowerpot.

Verlaine (far left), Rimbaud (next to him with all the hair), Mérat (giant pile of hyacinths)

This is so petty and so French and I am fully obsessed with it.²

Rimbaud: First Blood

Things between Rimbaud and Verlaine got even worse as the 1870s progressed, with Rimbaud casually stabbing Verlaine in the leg one time (don’t worry, it’s fine). One of their worse fights unfolded more or less like the dialogue that follows:

Rimbaud: you can’t leave me!
Verlaine: fucking watch me, buddy
Rimbaud: if you leave me I’ll run away and join the army, and then you’ll be sorry
Verlaine: you wouldn’t last four minutes in the army
Rimbaud: you’ve never lasted four minutes in your life
Verlaine: you know what, fuck you, I’m going back to my wife and if she doesn’t take me back I’ll kill her and then kill myself
Rimbaud: listen I am just a simple homosexual but I don’t feel like threatening to kill your wife is going to help your case here
Verlaine: fuck off

Verlaine did not kill himself or Mathilde (who would eventually divorce him in 1885, thank goodness). However, in 1873, Verlaine got so mad at Rimbaud and so drunk on absinthe that he ran out and bought a gun, then tried to shoot his lover in the street. Absinthe is good for many things but not for one’s aim, and Verlaine missed, clipping Rimbaud in the wrist.

Rimbaud called the cops—which seems like a reasonable thing to do if you’ve just been shot, but ended up not being helpful in the long run. Because it was the late 19th century, and one thing the police were not chill about was homosexuality. The French press (the media, not the coffeemaker) had a field day. Scandalous stories were printed in all the newspapers with lurid details about Verlaine and Rimbaud’s relationship, many of which were probably made up to sell more newspapers. Rimbaud decided not to press charges, but it was too late: the media circus was on.

there are strikingly few images of Rimbaud out there so I am substituting in The Bad Hat from Madeleine for the aforementioned reason

In one of the few sensible decisions I have read about him making, Rimbaud decided that now was a great time to get out of town. (It was! Good job, buddy!) He headed back home to Charleville to work on some new poems at his mom’s house. Verlaine was arrested and spent two years in prison for wounding with a firearm, because I don’t care how bohemian you are, you can’t just run around shooting people, we live in a society.

Verlaine and Rimbaud would meet one more time in 1875, and Verlaine would eventually die of alcoholism-related complications in 1893. I have to share this sentence about late-period Verlaine from one of my sources because it includes one of the most incredible phrases I have ever seen. It’s bolded, although you will know it as soon as you read it.

Verlaine lived in dives, frequenting prostitutes and thieves, continued to drink, and was often hospitalised, suffering from rheumatism, cirrhosis, gastritis, jaundice, diabetes, and cardiac hypertrophy. To his friend Bibi-la-Purée, a noted homosexual and umbrella thief, he said: “For me, Rimbaud is an ever-living reality, a sun that burns inside me that does not want to be put out…”.

Forget Verlaine. Let’s talk about Bibi-la-Purée.

How many umbrellas do you need to steal to become a noted umbrella thief? Is it more or less than a dozen? How famous must the umbrellas be for this to count as “notable”? Did he not steal anything else? Was it just all umbrellas, all the time? What did he do with them all? Did he have a secret umbrella shed? This man with the whimsical moniker of Bibi-la-Purée woke up and said “be gay do crime, but only if that crime is steal umbrellas.” I love him and would die for him.

this is a portrait of Bibi-la-Purée by Picasso. this man has suddenly become the only thing I care about. anyone who knows anything about Bibi-la-Purée sound off in the comments. I want to read a 2,000-page biography of this man.

The End of the Story but Let’s Be Real, We’re All Still Thinking About Bibi-La-Purée Aren’t We

This is sort of the end of Rimbaud’s life as the Weirdo Bad Boy of Decadent French Literature, although it’s not the end of his story! In 1875, Rimbaud decided to give up writing altogether and traveled around with the Dutch Colonial Army, a choice that, personally, I don’t understand from a French surrealist poet, but that’s the 19th century for you. In a series of events I had never heard of until researching this newsletter, Rimbaud spent the last few years of his life working as a coffee farmer and low-level arms dealer in Yemen, which sounds like the world’s most Humanities Major Mad Lib.

Honestly, every biopic or summary of Rimbaud’s life I’ve ever read stops in 1875, and I see why. The last 16 years of his life are boring as hell. He basically minded his business, got very into Catholicism, and then died of bone cancer in 1891 at age 37. It’s the weirdest, most anti-climactic ending to a historical gay disaster’s life I’ve ever read about. Not one additional anecdote about throwing lice at priests.

I do enjoy that his tombstone looks sort of like a Wild West saloon door for some reason

Rimbaud was buried in the local churchyard in Charleville. Lately, there have been rumblings about moving his grave and Verlaine’s to the Panthéon in Paris where all the most famous French artists are buried. About this I have two opinions:

1. Do not bury Rimbaud and Verlaine next to each other as if they were a good romantic relationship, Jesus Christ, keep these two messy bitches away from each other.

2. If you reinter Rimbaud in the Panthéon, you’re going to have to replace Alexandre Dumas’s grave with a giant flowerpot, and that seems like a lot of work.

That’s all for this week, folks! We’ll be back in two weeks or so with further stories of weirdos of yore. Until then, be well, and I cannot emphasize this enough: if you or someone you know has any facts about Bibi-la-Purée I implore you to share them with the class, because my searches are turning up only more versions of the Picasso painting and the fact that he was “a professional flâneur,” which with my college French skills translates to “he took leisurely walks for a living” and what does that MEAN and how can I SUBMIT MY RESUME FOR A SIMILAR POSITION,

-Allison

1. Did I really need to include the video from the official Moulin Rouge Broadway TikTok of Titus Burgess singing “Chandelier” in this story? Watch how many syllables that man puts into the word “chandelier” and then tell me honestly you’d have left it out.

2. This painting was also the moment I took a good hard look at my Kit Marlowe-loving soul and said “oh no I have a type, and that type is gay little poet disasters in their twenties making bad choices and getting drunk in public while having enough hair for three people.”