Rimbaud or Babelfish?

All you have to do is select which versions of the following prose poems from Arthur Rimbaud's “Illuminations” were translated by a French Symbolist-loving human being. Because the alternate version was translated by a software-loving machine. I ran the original poems through a roundtrip of Babelfish and cleaned the imposters up just enough to not give them away completely. There are 10 questions. Click the button at the end to calculate your results.

At left, we see Rimbaud as drawn Verlaine in a letter to Delahaye, 26 October, 1875. Even he can't figure out which translations are real! Best to drink absinthe while playing. Cheers!

Side show

Vigorous swindlers. Several have exploited your worlds. Without needs, and in haste to make use of their brilliant faculties and their knowledge of your suitabilities. What ripe men! Observe this vacuum like a night of summer, red and black, tricolored, steel studded with gold stars; twisted faces of lead, bleached, on fire; burlesques hoarsenesses! The cruel strut of conspicuous ornaments! Some are young, - how would they look on Cherubin? - equipped with terrifying voices and some dangerous resources. They are sent lamely into the city, deceived with the nauseous luxury.

O the most violent paradise of the furious grimace! Not to be compared with your Fakirs and other theatrical buffooneries. In impromptu costumes like something out of a bad dream, they issue heroic lovesongs of the brigands and demigods, inspiriting as history or religions ever were. Chinese, Hottentots, gipsies, simpletons, hyenas, Molochs, old insanities, demons sinister, they combine popular maternal turns with installations and beastly caresses. They would interpret new plays, “romantic” songs. The principal jugglers, they transform the place and the people and have recourse to the magnetic comedy. The eyes flame, blood sings, bones bump, the tears and the red streams run, Making them the clown or making their meticulous, hard terror last whole months.

Only I have the key to this wild show.

Side show

Very sturdy rogues. Several have exploited your worlds. With no needs, and in no hurry to make use of their brilliant faculties and their knowledge of your conveniences. What ripe men! Eyes vacant like the summer night, red and black, tricolored, steel studded with gold stars; faces distorted, leaden, blanched, ablaze; burlesque hoarsenesses! The cruel strut of flashy finery! Some are young, - how would they look on Cherubin? - endowed with terrifying voices and some dangerous resources. They are sent buggering in the town, tricked out with nauseating luxury.

O the most violent Paradise of the furious grimace! Not to be compared with your Fakirs and other theatrical buffooneries. In improvised costumes like something out of a bad dream, they enact heroic romances of brigands and of demigods, more inspiriting than history or religions have ever been. Chinese, Hottentots, gypsies, simpletons, hyenas, Molochs, old dementias, sinister demons, they combine popular maternal turns with bestial poses and caresses. They would interpret new plays, “romantic” songs. Master jugglers, they transform place and persons and have recourse to magnetic comedy. Eyes flame, blood sings, bones swell, tears and red trickles flow, Their clowning or their terror lasts a minute or entire months.

I alone have the key to this savage side show.

Beauteous Being

Against snow, a high-statured beauty. Whistlings of the dead and the circles of the secret music make the adored body, like a spectrum, rise, increase, and tremble; the wounds of the black and scarlet burst in superb flesh. - The proper colors of life darken, dance, and derive the vision in manufacture. - The shivers go up and thunder, and the delerious savor of these clashing effects with hissing mortals and the raucous music that the world, far behind us, lances our mother of beauty with, - it retreats, it rises upwards. Oh, our bones are covered with a new body in love.

O the ashed faces, the crined mask, the crystal arms! the gun on which I must fall into the melee, from the trees and the light air!

Beauteous Being

Against the snow of Being a high-statured Beauty. Whistlings of death and circles of secret music make the adored body, like a specter, rise, expand, and quiver; wounds of black and scarlet burst in the superb flesh. - Life's own colors darken, dance, and drift around the Vision in the making. - Shudders rise and rumble, and the delerious savor of these effects clashing with the deadly hissings and the hoarse music that the world, far behind us, hurls at our mother of beauty, - she recoils, she rears up. Oh, our bones are clothed with an amorous new body.

O the ashy faces, the crined escutcheon, the crystal arms! the cannon on which I am to fall in the melee of trees and of light air!

To a Reason

A rap of your finger on the drum fires all the sounds and starts a new harmony.

A step of yours, the levy of new men and their marching on.

Your head turns away: O the new love!

Your head turns back, - O the new love!

“Change our lots, confound the plagues, beginning with time”, to you these children sing. “Raise no matter where the substance of our fortune and our desires” they beg you.

Arrival of all time, who will go everywhere.

With a reason

A dry, hard blow of your finger on the drum puts fire to all the noises and begins a new harmony.

This stage of yours, the taking away of new men and going to them above.

Your head spins: O new love!

Your head returns, - O new love!

“Change our fates, confound the plagues, starting with time”, you and these children sing. “Raise anywhere the substance of our fortune and of our desires” they request of you.

Arriving at all hours, going everywhere.

Antique

Gracious son of Pan! Around your forehead crowned with flowerets and with laurel, restlessly roll those precious balls, your eyes. Spotted with brown lees, your cheeks are hollow. Your fangs gleam. Your breast is like a lyre, tinklings circulate through your pale arms. Your heart beats in that belly where sleeps the double sex. Walk through the night, gently moving that thigh, that second thigh, and that left leg.

Antiquity

Pleasant Pan! Around your face crowned with flowerets and with the bay-tree, roll agitated those invaluable balls, your eyes. Ripped with the brown dregs, your cheeks are hollow. You gleam of hooks. Your centre is a quadrant, tinklings circulate by your pale arms. Your palpitations in this belly where the double sex sleeps. Go by the night, gently moving this thigh, this second thigh, and this left leg.

Morning of Intoxication

O my Good! O my Beautiful! Atrocious bands where I do not stumble! Fairy-like rest! Hurrah for the wonderful work and the marvelous body, for the first time! It started with the laughter of the children, and will be finished by them. This poison will remain in all our veins, even when, the brass bands turning, we are returned to the old disharmony. O now, so worthy of these tortures! Fervently let us gather this superhuman promise made with our created body and our heart: this promise, this insanity! Elegance, science, violence! They promised to bury us in the shade of the tree of good and evil, to off-set tyrannical honesties, so that we bring our very pure love. It started with dislikes and it finishes, - unable to seize us and this eternity, - it finishes in rotten perfumes.

To laugh at children, at the discretions of slaves, at the austerity of virgins, horror of the figures and objects here, crowned be you by the memory of this day. It started with all the roistering, it finishes with angels of flame and ice.

Little intoxicated day, holy! It would be only for the mask of which you gratify us. We affirm you, method! We do not forget that you glorify each one of our ages. We have faith with poison. We know to give our very life every day.

Here is the time of the Assassins.

Morning of Drunkenness

O my Good! O my Beautiful! Appalling fanfare where I do not falter! Rack of enchantmants! Hurrah for the wonderful work and for the marvelous body, for the first time! It began in the midst of children's laughter, with their laughter will it end. This poison will remain in all our veins even when, the fanfare turning, we shall be given back to the old disharmony. O now may we, so worthy of these tortures! fervently take up the superhuman promise made to our created body and soul: that promise, that madness! Elegance, science, violence! They promised to bury in darkness the tree of good and evil, to deport tyrannic respectability so that we might bring hither our very pure love. It began with a certain disgust and it ends, - unable to grasp this eternity, - it ends in a riot of perfumes.

Laughter of children, discretion of slaves, austerity of virgins, loathing of faces and objects here, holy be all of you in memory of this vigil. It began with every sort of boorishness, behold it ends with angels of flame and ice.

Little drunken vigil, holy! if only because of the mask you have bestowed on us. We pronounce you, method! We shall not forget that yesterday you glorified each one of our ages. We have faith in the poison. We know how to give our whole life every day.

Now is the time of the Assassins.

War

When a child, certain skies sharpened my vision: all their characters were reflected in my face. The Phenomena were roused. - At present, the eternal inflection of moments and the infinity of mathematics drives me through this world where I meet with every civil honor, respected by strange children and prodigious affections. - I dream of a War of right and of might, of unlooked-for logic.

It is as simple as a musical phrase.

War

When a child, certain skies sharpened my vision: all their characters were reflected in my face. The Phenomena were roused. - Currently, the eternal inflection of the moments and the infinite one of mathematics leads me through this world where I meet each civil honor, respected by the strange children and prodigious affections . - dream of me in a war of right-handed force, of unlooked-for logic.

It is as simple as a musical expression.

Marine

Chariots of copper and of silver -

Prows of silver and steel -

Thresh upon the foam, -

Upheave the stumps and brambles.

The currents of the heath,

And the enormous ruts of the ebb,

Flow circularly toward the east,

Toward the pillars of the forest, -

Toward the boles of the jetty,

Against whose edge whirlwinds of light collide.

Sailor

Carriages of copper and of money -

Steel Prows -

Beat on the foam, -

Upheave the sections of blackberries.

The currents of the heather,

And the enormous ruts of the backward flow,

Run circular towards the east,

The pillars of the forest, -

Towards the boles of the pier,

On which swirls of the edge of light run up.

Fragments of the sheet 12.

One darkened morning in July. A taste of ashes flies in the air; - an odor of sweaty wood on the hearth, - dew-ret flowers, - devastation along the walks, - the fog of the channels above the fields - why not incense and toys already?
x x x
I stretched cords from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; the chains of gold from star to star, and I dance.
x x x
The pond in the mountain smokes without interruption. What witch will rise against the white western sky? Which fall of violet frondescence?
x x x
While the public funds evaporate in treats of fraternity, a bell of attractive fire sounds in the clouds.
x x x
Restoring the pleasant taste of ink of India, a powder of black rains on my vigil. I lower the jets of the candlesticks, I throw myself on my bed, and turning my face towards the darkness, I see you, my daughters! my queens!

Fragments of the leaf 12

An overcast morning in July. A taste of ashes flies through the air; - an odor of sweating wood on the hearth, - dew-ret flowers, - devastation along the promenades, - the mist of the canals over the fields - why not incense and toys already?
x x x
I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.
x x x
The upland pond smokes continuously. What witch will rise against the white west sky? What violet frondescence fall?
x x x
While public funds evaporate in feasts of fraternity, a bell of rosy fire rings in the clouds.
x x x
Reviving a pleasant taste of India ink, a black powder rains on my vigil. I lower the jets of the chandelier, I throw myself on my bed, and turning my face towards the darkness, I see you, my daughters! my queens!

Phrases

When the world is reduced to a single dark wood for our four eyes' astonishment, - a beach for two faithful children, - a musical house for one pure sympathy, - I shall find you. Should there be here below but a single old man, handsome and calm in the midst of “incredible luxury,” I shall be at your feet. Should I have realized all your memories, - should I be the one who can bind you hand and foot, - I shall strangle you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When we are very strong, - who draws back? very gay, - who cares for ridicule? When we are very bad, - what would they do with us. Deck yourself, dance, laugh, - I could never throw Love out of the window.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
- My comrade, beggar girl, monster child! O it's all one to you these unhappy women, these wiles, and my discomfiture. Bind yourself to us with your impossible voice, your voice! sole soother of this vile despair.

Expressions

When the world is a tiny room of simple dark wood for the astonishment of our four eyes, - a beach for two faithful children, - a musical house for pure sympathy, - I will find you. If there is here below but an simple old man, beautiful and calm in the medium of “incredible luxury,” I will be with your feet. If I have realized all your memories, - if I am that which binds you hand and foot, - I will strangle you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When we are very strong, - who draws behind? very merry, - who maintains the ridiculous? When we are very bad, - what they would make of us. Deck yourself, dance, laughter, - I could never not throw love out of the window.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
- My comrade, beggar girl, child of monsters! O it is each one with you these unhappy women, these wiles, and my discomfiture. You bind to us with your impossible voice, your voice! the one soother of this cheap despair.

Vagrants

Pitiful brother! What terrible nights I owed him! “I did not put enough ardor in his company. I have trifled with his infirmity. My fault if we go again to exile and slavery.” He implied to me I was unhappy and of a very strange innocence, and would add worrisome reasons.

To answer, I would scoff at this doctor of Satan and, in the end, jumping to the window, I would create, beyond the countryside crossed by bands of rare music, nocturnal phantoms of extravagence to come.

After this vaguely hygenic deviation, I would lie down on my pallet and not deadened earlier than, almost each night, the poor brother would rise, his stinking mouth,his eyes starting from his head, - just as he had dreamed he had looked at! - and he would trail me in the room, howling his dream of imbecilic pain.

I had, in truth, pawned myself to reconstitute him in his primitive state of a child of the sun, - and, nourished by the wine the caves and biscuits of the road, we wandered of, I impatient to find the place and the formula.

Vagabonds

Pitiful brother! What frightful nights I owed him! “I have not put enough ardor into this enterprise. I have trifled with his infirmity. My fault should we go back to exile, and to slavery.” He implied I was unlucky and of a very strange innocence, and would add disquieting reasons.

For reply, I would jeer at this Satanic doctor and, in the end, going over to the window, I would create, beyond the countryside crossed by bands of rare music, phantoms of nocturnal extravagence to come.

After this vaguely hygenic diversion, I would lie down on my pallet and no sooner asleep than, almost every night, the poor brother would rise, his mouth foul, eyes starting from his head, - just as he had dreamed he looked! - and would drag me into the room, howling his dream of imbecilic sorrow.

I had, in truth, pledged myself to restore him to his primitive state of child of the Sun, - and, nourished by the wine of caverns and the biscuit of the road, we wandered, I impatient to find place and formula.