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    The Flowers of Evil & Paris Spleen: Selected Poems
    The Flowers of Evil & Paris Spleen: Selected Poems
    The Flowers of Evil & Paris Spleen: Selected Poems
    Ebook146 pages1 hour

    The Flowers of Evil & Paris Spleen: Selected Poems

    By Charles Baudelaire

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    About this ebook

    Sex and death, rebellion, corruption — the themes of Charles Baudelaire's sensual poems sparked outrage upon their 1857 debut. His masterpiece, Flowers of Evil (Les Fleurs du Mal), was dismissed as decadent and obscene and banned in France for nearly a century. Although Baudelaire died in obscurity, today he is recognized as one of the nineteenth century's greatest and most influential poets, whose works were ahead of their time.
    This unique collection captures the fevered spirit of the transition from Romanticism to Modernism with authoritative interpretations of fifty-one poems from Flowers of Evil. In addition, fourteen prose poems from the posthumously published Paris Spleen offer poignant reflections on the city and its humbler denizens. Noted scholar Wallace Fowlie provides definitive translations of these verses.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateMar 5, 2012
    ISBN9780486113647
    The Flowers of Evil & Paris Spleen: Selected Poems
    Author

    Charles Baudelaire

    Charles Baudelaire, né le 9 avril 1821 à Paris et mort dans la même ville le 31 août 1867, est un poète français.

    Read more from Charles Baudelaire

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    Reviews for The Flowers of Evil & Paris Spleen

    3.5/5

    4 ratings2 reviews

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    • 1/5
      Unimpressed. A depressed, deviant mind depicting in prose a warped view of reality.
    • 3/5
      Liked him more when I was young, but the sun shines brighter now, so no longer quite as much, although I still admire his stuff.

    Book preview

    The Flowers of Evil & Paris Spleen - Charles Baudelaire

    THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

    To the Reader

    Folly, error, sin and avarice

    Occupy our minds and waste our bodies,

    And we feed our polite remorse

    As beggars feed their lice.

    Our sins are stubborn, our repentance is cowardly;

    We ask high prices for our vows,

    And we gaily return to the muddy road,

    Believing we will wash away all our spots with vile tears.

    On the pillow of evil it is Thrice-Great Satan

    Who endlessly rocks our bewitched mind,

    And the rich metal of our will

    Is vaporized by that wise chemist.

    It is the Devil who pulls the strings that move us!

    In repulsive objects we find enticing lures;

    Each day we go down one more step toward Hell,

    Without horror, through the darkness which smells rank.

    Just as a lustful pauper who kisses and bites

    The martyred breast of an aged whore,

    We steal, as we move along, a clandestine pleasure

    Which we squeeze hard like an old orange.

    Packed tight and swarming like a million maggots,

    A crowd of Demons carouse in our brains,

    And, when we breathe, Death into our lungs

    Descends, an invisible river, with heavy wailings.

    If rape, poison, the knife and arson

    Have not yet woven with their pleasing patterns

    The banal canvas of our pitiful fate,

    It is because our soul, alas, is not bold enough.

    But among the jackals, panthers, bitches,

    Monkeys, scorpions, vultures, serpents,

    The monsters squealing, yelling, grunting, crawling

    In the infamous menagerie of our vices

    There is one uglier, more wicked and more foul than all!

    Although he does not make great gestures or great cries,

    He would gladly make the earth a shambles

    And swallow the world in a yawn;

    It is boredom! his eyes weeping an involuntary tear,

    He dreams of gibbets as he smokes his hookah.

    You know him, reader, this delicate monster,

    —Hypocrite reader—my twin—my brother!

    The Blessing

    When, by a decree of the sovereign powers,

    The Poet comes into this bored world,

    His mother, terrified and full of blasphemy,

    Clenches her fists toward God, who has pity on her:

    "Ah, why didn’t I litter a nest of vipers,

    Rather than give birth to this mockery?

    A curse on that night with its fleeting pleasures

    When my womb conceived my expiation!

    Since you chose me from among all women

    To be the disgust of my disappointed husband,

    And since I cannot throw back into the fire

    This weak monster, like a love letter,

    I will make your hate which stifles me gush forth

    On the accursed instrument of your plottings,

    And I will twist this wretched tree so far

    That its blighted buds will not grow!"

    Thus she swallows the foam of her hate,

    And, without understanding the eternal designs,

    She prepares in the pit of Hell

    The pyres consecrated to the crimes of a mother.

    Meanwhile, under the invisible care of an Angel,

    The disinherited Child is intoxicated with sunlight,

    And in all he drinks and in all he eats

    Discovers ambrosia and vermillion nectar.

    He plays with the wind, talks with the cloud,

    And singing revels in the way of the cross;

    And the Spirit following him in his pilgrimage

    Weeps at seeing him happy as a bird in the forest.

    All those he would love look at him with fear,

    Or, emboldened by his calm manner,

    Vie with one another in drawing from him a complaint

    And practice on him the experiments of their cruelty.

    In the bread and wine destined for his mouth

    They mingle ashes with filthy spittings;

    Hypocritically they throw away what he touches,

    And blame themselves for stepping where he stepped.

    His wife cries in the public places:

    "Since he finds me beautiful enough to worship,

    I will take on the profession of ancient idols,

    And like them I will cover my body with gold;

    And I will get drunk on nard, incense, myrrh,

    Genuflections, meats and wines,

    To learn if I can from an admiring heart

    Laughingly usurp the homage of the gods!

    And, when I am bored with these impious farces,

    I will lay on him my frail and strong hand;

    And my nails, like the nails of harpies,

    Will dig a path to his heart.

    Like a very young bird trembling and palpitating

    I will pull that red heart out from his breast,

    And, in order to satiate my favorite beast,

    Scornfully I will throw it to him on the ground!"

    Toward Heaven, where his eyes see a shining throne,

    The serene Poet raises his reverent arms,

    And the vast visions of his lucid mind

    Shut off from him the sight of cruel races:

    "Be blessed, my Lord, who give suffering

    As a divine remedy for our impurities

    And as the best and the purest essence

    Which prepares the strong for holy ecstasies!

    I know that you keep a place for the Poet

    In the blessed ranks of the holy legions,

    And that you invite him to the eternal feast

    Of Thrones, Virtues and Dominations.

    I know that suffering is the one nobility

    Where the earth and hell will have no effect,

    And that in order to weave my mystic crown

    All times and all worlds must be used.

    But the lost jewels of ancient Palmyra,

    The unknown metals, the pearls of the sea,

    Mounted by your hand, could not suffice

    For this handsome diadem shining and clear;

    For it will be made only of pure light,

    Drawn from the holy hearth of primal rays,

    And to which mortal eyes, in their full splendor,

    Are but tarnished and sad mirrors!"

    The Albatross

    Often, as an amusement, crewmen

    Catch albatrosses, huge birds of the sea,

    Who follow, indolent companions of the voyage,

    The ship gliding over the salty deeps.

    As soon as they have placed them on the deck,

    These kings of the sky, awkward and ashamed,

    Pitiably let their large white wings

    Drag at their sides

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