Verlaine Seems Like a Dostoievskian Character

I go through a volume of Verlaine and the impressions blend to a point where it is impossible to risk any conclusion. All this innate irreverence, this indecent biography, these lines that mix ecstasy and fatigue, this terribly disturbed soul… Verlaine seems like a Dostoievskian character on the verge of madness. And how well he writes! It is as annoying as natural that his work, that is, the work of a deviant artist, has resonated so strongly, especially among the countless deviants who claim to be but will never be artists. But is undeniable the talent with which Verlaine represents, to say with Carpeaux, his “musical sensations”. A comparison with Villon is imperative, and recognition is equally imperative. Great artist!