Eli Schuster's View:
Synopsis: Writing at the ripe old age of nineteen (after a stay in London, during which his lover shot him in a drunken rage, and he apparently transitioned from run-of-the-mill absynthe to opium, with a whole lot of booze and hashish thrown in) French poet Arthur Rimbaud documents his "season in Hell", between April and August 1873. None of it makes the slightest bit of fucking sense.
What I learned: Moody teenagers have been around for a long time.
Memorable Line: "I inherit from my Gaulish ancestors my whitish-blue eye, my narrow skull, and my lack of skill in fighting. My attire seems to me as barbarous as theirs. But I don't butter my hair."
You Might Like This Book If: you want to enjoy some good, old-fashioned teenaged angst, but Degrassi is a little too straight-forward and linear for your taste.
Bottom Line: maybe Rimbaud could have used more hugs and fewer drugs.
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