Les Fleurs du Mal Kindle â Les Fleurs Epub /

Les Fleurs du Mal Presents the first American translation of the complete text of Baudelaire smasterwork and includes the complete original French texts for easy comparison This is a step towards possession Certainly the possession does not last the entire way through, but even in the less interesting or repetitive poems there are some jarring lines, amplified by a soul in Heat.Like any elevated piece of literature, Flowers of Evil consumed me to such an extent that at times I forgot I was reading words on a page, its intensity moving my mind into some unknown zone where images, thoughts, and recollections screamed by, colliding with each other So, too, did I fee This is a step towards possession Certainly the possession does not last the entire way through, but even in the less interesting or repetitive poems there are some jarring lines, amplified by a soul in Heat.Like any elevated piece of literature, Flowers of Evil consumed me to such an extent that at times I forgot I was reading words on a page, its intensity moving my mind into some unknown zone where images, thoughts, and recollections screamed by, colliding with each other So, too, did I feel at times that even the writer himself was not all there, taken away by a demon, merely the vehicle for some phantasm Yes, Baudelaire sold me on his deal, not merely because of content or form, but because of the legitimacy and authenticity of his spirit that comes through them At its best I lost the idea that Baudelaire was writing, or constructing thoughts and ideas More often I felt like I was seeing a living reality and the spirit behind it, the dreams he knows We can look at a whore and see nothing poetic just as we can look at the sun and see nothing poetic But the poetic is everywhere and, for me, theI can tap into, the better life is Is itandrare to find a person who sees anything poetic in the sun Is the modern mind still trying to convince itself that myth doesn t work Whatever one s answer to those questions, most will agree that it s even rarer to find someone who sees anything POETIC in the heist, the hell, the holey handbag And then even rarer yet again to find someone who can see the poetic in such things and communicate it to others on a convincing level And then perhaps it s only a very singular visionary who can not only see the poetic in such things, but communicate it in such a way that it creates its own inspiring beauty while remaining true to the original inspiration Sure we have heists, whores, and holey handbags a dime a dozen, but do they even recognize their own beauty much Are they as tuned in to their own spirit as Baudelaire was I hate cars, but I love to watch the rare person who is passionate and soulful about them I don t read books on toe picking, but show me someone passionate about their toe picking and I ll gladly sit down beside them to observe and ask engaging questions, join in a little Baudelaire Hate his whoring if you will, but there is a passion, a depth, a profound nature to it that would have me in rapid pursuit to follow him anywhere And the guy never seems disappointed That is what twists the knife in me time and time again But he s not just writing of whore houses and opium dens, telling us of their ugly and vile colors No He s not just heading out on a heartless, gutless, mindless hedonistic romp No This is the debased as Ideal, wrapping the demon up in lovely meter, rhyme, and high metaphor, carrying the gutter into the heavens The Saint of Whores The Divinity of Syphilis The God of Pooping your Pants I love it He loves Not foul for a moment There is goodness in it all I can t even crystalize Baudelaire without sounding silly To find Beauty in the Gutter This is the Man Far too much of it to originate from mere constructs and ideas No, there are demons and gods at work Baudelaire wouldn t even spit on a Renoir painting He d just undress it and fly The Corpse on the lip, a taste from God Possessed I can not get so close to It, except through Baudelaire Beautiful Ugliness Goodness When literature helps you live a new life, or at least revitalize it After reading Baudelaire, I suddenly find myself wanting to smoke cigarettes and say very cynical things while donning a trendy haircut Plus, if I didn t read Baudelaire, how could I possibly carry on conversations with pretentious art students In all seriousness, though, I wish my French was better, so that I could read it in its intended language I m sure it looses something in the translation but it s still great stuff nonetheless And with a title like Flowers of Evil, how can you go After reading Baudelaire, I suddenly find myself wanting to smoke cigarettes and say very cynical things while donning a trendy haircut Plus, if I didn t read Baudelaire, how could I possibly carry on conversations with pretentious art students In all seriousness, though, I wish my French was better, so that I could read it in its intended language I m sure it looses something in the translation but it s still great stuff nonetheless And with a title like Flowers of Evil, how can you go wrong I read Les Fleurs du Mal many years back, but it is still within me Just a few words about this beautiful, sometimes nightmarish, masterpiece What do you expect to feel when reading Charles Baudelaire Nothing, I expect, falsely innocent, but superior free flowing dream sequences of surrealism I loved to read of prophetic dreams with occasional moments of grace, where the fallen world seems to transform itself into an eternally beautiful moment As always with poetry we have our preferences, I read Les Fleurs du Mal many years back, but it is still within me Just a few words about this beautiful, sometimes nightmarish, masterpiece What do you expect to feel when reading Charles Baudelaire Nothing, I expect, falsely innocent, but superior free flowing dream sequences of surrealism I loved to read of prophetic dreams with occasional moments of grace, where the fallen world seems to transform itself into an eternally beautiful moment As always with poetry we have our preferences, those that touches us deeper I am no poet, so I have to satisfy myself to tell you that in its better moments for me it is simply splendid.Just a taste ElevationAbove the ponds, the rills and the dells, The mountains and woods, the clouds and the seas, Beyond the sun and the galaxies, Beyond the confines of the starry shells,O my mind, you proceed with agility, And as a good swimmer finds joy in the tide,You gaily traverse the heavens vast and wide With an indescribable and male felicity.Fly away beyond earth s morbid miasmas Purge yourself in the upper atmosphere, And drink up, divine liqueur so clear, The pure fire suffusing the vast cosmos.Behind the worry and vast chagrin That weigh on our days as gloomy as night, Happy is he who in vigorous flight Can depart for the fields bright and serene He whose thoughts, like uncaged birds, Soar skyward each morning in liberty, Who floats above life, and grasps effortlessly The language of flowers and things without words El vationAu dessus des tangs, au dessus des vall es, Des montagnes, des bois, des nuages, des mers, Par del le soleil, par del les thers, Par del les confins des sph res toil es,Mon esprit, tu te meus avec agilit , Et, comme un bon nageur qui se p me dans l onde,Tu sillonnes gaiement l immensit profonde Avec une indicible et m le volupt Envole toi bien loin de ces miasmes morbides Va te purifier dans l air sup rieur, Et bois, comme une pure et divine liqueur,Le feu clair qui remplit les espaces limpides.Derri re les ennuis et les vastes chagrins Qui chargent de leur poids l existence brumeuse,Heureux celui qui peut d une aile vigoureuse S lancer vers les champs lumineux et sereins Celui dont les pensers, comme des alouettes,Vers les cieux le matin prennent un libre essor, Qui plane sur la vie, et comprend sans effort Le langage des fleurs et des choses muettes Here s a recent essay on Baudelaire from the trusty, always interesting online mag The Millions So as to try to follow that, I ve got to disclose a bit of an embarrassment Baudelaire was, for me, the kind of poet only certain kinds of people liked By this I don t mean Francophiles or the merely pretentious but there was something that set a devotee of C.B apart from your average earnest, quavering, verbose, nervous poet or poetry fanboy It s hard to Here s a recent essay on Baudelaire from the trusty, always interesting online mag The Millions So as to try to follow that, I ve got to disclose a bit of an embarrassment Baudelaire was, for me, the kind of poet only certain kinds of people liked By this I don t mean Francophiles or the merely pretentious but there was something that set a devotee of C.B apart from your average earnest, quavering, verbose, nervous poet or poetry fanboy It s hard to put it into words maybe you know it when you see it but there was something sort ofelegantandremovedand cynical about somebody who felt like carting around this haunted menagerie everywhere they went, the way you just do with your favorite poets I m no stranger to French poetry or literary bleakness, believe you me, but there was always something slightly creepy about Baudelaire, I could never put my finger on why I recoiled from it and what this meant There s the languid, morbid Romanticism, fond of grand statements and magnificent imagery the surgically precise mastery of rhyme and meter I don t speakthan toddler s French but you can pretty much get a good sense of this stuff with the original text facing the English translations the utterly bleak yet exotic, nigh perfumed insights, metaphoric associations and twists of phrase the poet s own and those of his poetic subjects addictions and rhapsodies the deep, indescribable longings muddled with spleen the detestation of smug comfort and propriety with the love of the perverse , the occult and the melodious rumination mixed with ominous, pervading ennui Well, call me a hardheaded New England Pragmatist, but there was something sort of suspiciously sickly about this guy I mean, here I am, 11 22pm, feasting on my pauper s pleasures of potato salad, a rather stale corn muffin and a can of Sprite I m very ok with this Not necessarily dying to be anywhere else or doing much else I m content, in my clean, well lighted place down the street from the apt I mean, haunted wonderlands are all well and good but in the words of Peter Griffin, SOMEBODY THROW A FREAKING PIE My oldest friend, a fine poet and a dedicated teacher and a loving husband and father, just loved this stuff when we were growing up Still does, in fact It inspired him I never quite got it I mean, there s plenty to take from the poems AS poems but really, where does one relate I wasn t outraged by Baudelaire, I was given the willies I was just pretty definitively turned off by an elaborately detailed, mockingly erotic poem about finding a maggot teeming corpse, spreadeagled, in the middle of a spring stroll with your loverI get it, I get it, but I m gonna start slowly backing away now, ok I didn t get it, and I didn t even really want to Now that s totally changed I don t quite know why I think it s got something to do with reading Walter Benjamin s interesting take on Baudelaire s style and literary achievement on a bus on the way to visit said friend Nothing I like better than a fine and appreciative literary assessment And I really love it when someone s insights turn my own around So that planted the seed, as did time and experience I m not the same person I was when I first encountered poetry, not to mention life itself, and my tastes haven t changed in the sense of the old favorites, the lodestars, but they ve definitely widened and evolved and been enriched and I think deepened I think I m aware of ironiesthan I ever was, and unfulfillment, loss, dead air and lights that turn off I ve been dealing with a long string of anguish, disappointment, despair, confusion and frustration Time has worn away some of the gilding from the world, and this is what some like to call experience Ok, well, sure, but so what Well, Baudelaire s one of the so whats I never understood what his kind of visionary poetics really meant, what it did and where it brought the craft of poetry and the interested, open minded reader I think in some ways this is the kind of poetry that you need to grow into Rimbaud works just fine when you re pissed off and rebellious and Promethean and you re 16, but he was a genius and his work survives real scrutiny and lasts after the humidity of adolescence cools off Baudelaire a poet Rimbaud admired, btw, no mean feat in and of itself requires a littleout of you to really start to absorb, I ve found Everybody knows by now that he was into hashish and absinthe and that he had plenty of torrid affairs and that he blew through most of his inheritance on the finest linens and dandied it up something fierce He also had quite the lover mistress muse femme fatale, as The Daily Beast makes clear What I think I missed out on initially was the old soul that shifts and speaks within these tortured, skeptical, vivid, tastefully arranged and somehow gruesomely challenging poems Baudelaire isn t interested in pissing off the stuffy, conventional reading public because he s a spoiled, creepy, brat it s because he has a vision of life his own, his city s, etc that just couldn t come across in any other guise I m making an ass of myself now, as per usual, so I m going to stop bumbling down the explication road and just quote this poem in full I m not an expert or anything, but I definitely think that this poem is essential Reversibility Angel of gladness, do you know of anguish, Shame, of troubles, sobs, and of remorse, And the vague terrors of those awful nights That squeeze the heart like paper in a ball Angel of gladness, do you know of pain Angel of kindness, do you know of hatred, Clenched fists in the shadow, tears of gall, When Vengeance beats his hellish call to arms, And makes himself the captain of our will Angel of kindness, do you know revenge Angel of health, are you aware of Fevers Who by pallid hospitals great walls Stagger like exiles, with the lagging foot, Searching for sunlight, mumbling with their lips Angel of health, do you know of disease Angel of beauty, do you know of wrinkles, Fear of growing old, the great torment To read the horror of self sacrifice In eyes our avid eyes had drunk for years Angel of beauty, do you know these lines Angel of fortune, happiness and light, David in dying might have claimed the health That radiates from your enchanted flesh But, angel, I implore only your prayers, Angel of fortune, happiness and lightI was reading this at work, looking out through the big windows and watching cold night full of pissing rain trembling in the puddles on the corner of the opposite side of the street, sky all black, stained yellow streetlights, city spaces, melancholic, churning I think I get it now Sometimes you have to pick the flowers yourself

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