Dédicace
Au poète impeccableAu parfait magicien ès lettres françaisesA mon très-cher et très-vénéréMaître et amiThéophile Gautier Avec les sentimentsDe la plus profonde humilitéJe dédieCes fleurs maladivesC.B.
— Charles Baudelaire
Dedication
To the impeccable poetTo the pefect magician of French letters To my very dear and very reveredMaster and friendThéophile GautierWith sentimentsOf the most profound humilityI dedicateThese unhealthy flowersC.B.
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.
Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.
Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan TrismégisteQui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,Et le riche métal de notre volontéEst tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.
C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.
Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mangeLe sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestinQue nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.
Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumonsDescend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.
Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessinsLe canevas banal de nos piteux destins,C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.
Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,
II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débrisEt dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;
C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!
To the Reader
Folly, error, sin, avarice Occupy our minds and labor our bodies, And we feed our pleasant remorse As beggars nourish their vermin.
Our sins are obstinate, our repentance is faint; We exact a high price for our confessions, And we gaily return to the miry path, Believing that base tears wash away all our stains.
On the pillow of evil Satan, Trismegist, Incessantly lulls our enchanted minds, And the noble metal of our will Is wholly vaporized by this wise alchemist.
The Devil holds the strings which move us! In repugnant things we discover charms; Every day we descend a step further toward Hell, Without horror, through gloom that stinks.
Like a penniless rake who with kisses and bites Tortures the breast of an old prostitute, We steal as we pass by a clandestine pleasure That we squeeze very hard like a dried up orange.
Serried, swarming, like a million maggots, A legion of Demons carouses in our brains, And when we breathe, Death, that unseen river, Descends into our lungs with muffled wails.
If rape, poison, daggers, arson Have not yet embroidered with their pleasing designs The banal canvas of our pitiable lives, It is because our souls have not enough boldness.
But among the jackals, the panthers, the bitch hounds,The apes, the scorpions, the vultures, the serpents,The yelping, howling, growling, crawling monsters,In the filthy menagerie of our vices,
There is one more ugly, more wicked, more filthy! Although he makes neither great gestures nor great cries, He would willingly make of the earth a shambles And, in a yawn, swallow the world;
He is Ennui! — His eye watery as though with tears, He dreams of scaffolds as he smokes his hookah pipe.You know him reader, that refined monster,— Hypocritish reader, — my fellow, — my brother!
Folly and error, avarice and vice, Employ our souls and waste our bodies' force. As mangey beggars incubate their lice, We nourish our innocuous remorse.
Our sins are stubborn, craven our repentance. For our weak vows we ask excessive prices. Trusting our tears will wash away the sentence, We sneak off where the muddy road entices.
Cradled in evil, that Thrice-Great Magician, The Devil, rocks our souls, that can't resist; And the rich metal of our own volition Is vaporised by that sage alchemist.
The Devil pulls the strings by which we're worked: By all revolting objects lured, we slink Hellwards; each day down one more step we're jerked Feeling no horror, through the shades that stink.
Just as a lustful pauper bites and kisses The scarred and shrivelled breast of an old whore, We steal, along the roadside, furtive blisses, Squeezing them, like stale oranges, for more.
Packed tight, like hives of maggots, thickly seethingWithin our brains a host of demons surges. Deep down into our lungs at every breathing, Death flows, an unseen river, moaning dirges.
If rape or arson, poison, or the knife Has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff Of this drab canvas we accept as life — It is because we are not bold enough!
Amongst the jackals, leopards, mongrels, apes, Snakes, scorpions, vultures, that with hellish din, Squeal, roar, writhe, gambol, crawl, with monstrous shapes, In each man's foul menagerie of sin —
There's one more damned than all. He never gambols,Nor crawls, nor roars, but, from the rest withdrawn,Gladly of this whole earth would make a shamblesAnd swallow up existence with a yawn...
Boredom! He smokes his hookah, while he dreams Of gibbets, weeping tears he cannot smother. You know this dainty monster, too, it seems — Hypocrite reader! — You! — My twin! — My brother!
— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)
Folly and error, sin and avarice, Labor our minds and bodies in their course, Blithely we nourish pleasurable remorse As beggars feed their parasitic lice.
Our sins are stubborn, our repentance faint, We sell our weak confessions at high price, Returning gaily to the bogs of vice, Thinking base tears can cleanse our every taint.
Pillowed on evil, Satan Trismegist Ceaselessly cradles our enchanted mind, The flawless metal of our will we find Volatilized by this rare alchemist.
The Devil holds the puppet threads; and swayed By noisome things and their repugnant spell, Daily we take one further step toward Hell, Suffering no horror in the olid shade.
As an impoverished rake will kiss and bite The bruised blue nipples of an ancient whore, We steal clandestine pleasures by the score, Which, like dried orange rinds, we pressure tight.
Serried, aswarm, like million maggots, soDemons carouse in us with fetid breath, And, when we breathe, the unseen stream of death Flows down our lungs with muffled wads of woe.
If poison, knife, rape, arson, have not dared Yet stamp the pleasing pattern of their gyves On the dull canvas of our sorry lives, It is because our torpid souls are scared.
But side by side with our monstrosities — Jackals and bitch hounds, scorpions, vultures, apes,Panthers and serpents whose repulsive shapesPollute our vice's dank menageries,
There is one viler and more wicked spawn, Which never makes great gestures or loud cries Yet would turn earth to wastes of sumps and sties And swallow all creation in a yawn:
Ennui! Moist-eyed perforce, worse than all other, Dreaming of stakes, he smokes his hookah pipe.Reader, you know this fiend, refined and ripe, Reader, O hypocrite — my like! — my brother!
— Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: Peter Pauper Press, 1958)
Infatuation, sadism, lust, avaricepossess our souls and drain the body's force;we spoonfeed our adorable remorse,like whores or beggars nourishing their lice.
Our sins are mulish, our confessions lies;we play to the grandstand with our promises,we pray for tears to wash our filthiness;importantly pissing hogwash through our styes.
The devil, watching by our sickbeds, hissedold smut and folk-songs to our soul, untilthe soft and precious metal of our willboiled off in vapor for this scientist.
Each day his flattery makes us eat a toad,and each step forward is a step to hell,unmoved, through previous corpses and their smellasphyxiate our progress on this road.
Like the poor lush who cannot satisfy,we try to force our sex with counterfeits,die drooling on the deliquescent tits,mouthing the rotten orange we suck dry.
Gangs of demons are boozing in our brain —ranked, swarming, like a million warrior-ants,they drown and choke the cistern of our wants;each time we breathe, we tear our lungs with pain.
If poison, arson, sex, narcotics, kniveshave not yet ruined us and stitched their quick,loud patterns on the canvas of our lives,it is because our souls are still too sick.
Among the vermin, jackals, panthers, lice,gorillas and tarantulas that suckand snatch and scratch and defecate and fuckin the disorderly circus of our vice,
there's one more ugly and abortive birth.It makes no gestures, never beats its breast,yet it would murder for a moment's rest,and willingly annihilate the earth.
It's BOREDOM. Tears have glued its eyes together.You know it well, my Reader. This obscenebeast chain-smokes yawning for the guillotine —you — hypocrite Reader — my double — my brother!
— Robert Lowell, from Marthiel & Jackson Matthews, eds., The Flowers of Evil (NY: New Directions, 1963)
Foolishness, error, sin, niggardliness, Occupy our minds and work on our bodies, And we feed our mild remorse, As beggars nourish their vermin.
Our sins are insistent, our repentings are limp;We pay ourselves richly for our admissions,And we gaily go once more on the filthy pathBelieving that by cheap fears we shall wash away all our sins.
On the pillow of evil it is Satan TrismegistusWho soothes a long while our bewitched mind,And the rich metal of our determinationIs made vapor by that learned chemist.
It is the Devil who holds the reins which make us go!In repulsive objects we find something charming;Each day we take one more step towards Hell — Without being horrified — across darknesses that stink.
Like a beggarly sensualist who kisses and eatsThe martyred breast of an ancient strumpet, We steal where we may a furtive pleasure Which we handle forcefully like an old orange.
Tight, swarming, like a million worms,A population of Demons carries on in our brains,And, when we breathe, Death into our lungsGoes down, an invisible river, with thick complaints.
If rape, poison, the dagger, arson,Have not as yet embroidered with their pleasing designsThe recurrent canvas of our pitiable destinies,It is that our spirit, alas, is not brave enough.
But among the jackals, the panthers, the bitch-hounds, The apes, the scorpions, the vultures, the serpents, The monsters screeching, howling, grumbling, creeping,In the infamous menagerie of our vices,
There is one uglier, wickeder, more shameless!Although he makes no large gestures nor loud criesHe willingly would make rubbish of the earthAnd with a yawn swallow the world;
He is Ennui! — His eye filled with an unwished-for tear,He dreams of scaffolds while puffing at his hookah.You know him, reader, this exquisite monster,— Hypocrite reader, — my likeness, — my brother!
— Eli Siegel, Hail, American Development (New York: Definition Press, 1968)
Bénédiction
Lorsque, par un décret des puissances suprêmes,Le Poète apparaît en ce monde ennuyé,Sa mère épouvantée et pleine de blasphèmesCrispe ses poings vers Dieu, qui la prend en pitié:
— «Ah! que n'ai-je mis bas tout un noeud de vipères,Plutôt que de nourrir cette dérision!Maudite soit la nuit aux plaisirs éphémèresOù mon ventre a conçu mon expiation!
Puisque tu m'as choisie entre toutes les femmesPour être le dégoût de mon triste mari,Et que je ne puis pas rejeter dans les flammes,Comme un billet d'amour, ce monstre rabougri,
Je ferai rejaillir ta haine qui m'accableSur l'instrument maudit de tes méchancetés,Et je tordrai si bien cet arbre misérable,Qu'il ne pourra pousser ses boutons empestés!»
Elle ravale ainsi l'écume de sa haine,Et, ne comprenant pas les desseins éternels,Elle-même prépare au fond de la GéhenneLes bûchers consacrés aux crimes maternels.
Pourtant, sous la tutelle invisible d'un Ange,L'Enfant déshérité s'enivre de soleilEt dans tout ce qu'il boit et dans tout ce qu'il mangeRetrouve l'ambroisie et le nectar vermeil.
II joue avec le vent, cause avec le nuage,Et s'enivre en chantant du chemin de la croix;Et l'Esprit qui le suit dans son pèlerinagePleure de le voir gai comme un oiseau des bois.
Tous ceux qu'il veut aimer l'observent avec crainte,Ou bien, s'enhardissant de sa tranquillité,Cherchent à qui saura lui tirer une plainte,Et font sur lui l'essai de leur férocité.
Dans le pain et le vin destinés à sa boucheIls mêlent de la cendre avec d'impurs crachats;Avec hypocrisie ils jettent ce qu'il touche,Et s'accusent d'avoir mis leurs pieds dans ses pas.
Sa femme va criant sur les places publiques:«Puisqu'il me trouve assez belle pour m'adorer,Je ferai le métier des idoles antiques,Et comme elles je veux me faire redorer;
Et je me soûlerai de nard, d'encens, de myrrhe,De génuflexions, de viandes et de vins,Pour savoir si je puis dans un coeur qui m'admireUsurper en riant les hommages divins!
Et, quand je m'ennuierai de ces farces impies,Je poserai sur lui ma frêle et forte main;Et mes ongles, pareils aux ongles des harpies,Sauront jusqu'à son coeur se frayer un chemin.
Comme un tout jeune oiseau qui tremble et qui palpite,J'arracherai ce coeur tout rouge de son sein,Et, pour rassasier ma bête favoriteJe le lui jetterai par terre avec dédain!»
Vers le Ciel, où son oeil voit un trône splendide,Le Poète serein lève ses bras pieuxEt les vastes éclairs de son esprit lucideLui dérobent l'aspect des peuples furieux:
— «Soyez béni, mon Dieu, qui donnez la souffranceComme un divin remède à nos impuretésEt comme la meilleure et la plus pure essenceQui prépare les forts aux saintes voluptés!
Je sais que vous gardez une place au PoèteDans les rangs bienheureux des saintes Légions,Et que vous l'invitez à l'éternelle fêteDes Trônes, des Vertus, des Dominations.
Je sais que la douleur est la noblesse uniqueOù ne mordront jamais la terre et les enfers,Et qu'il faut pour tresser ma couronne mystiqueImposer tous les temps et tous les univers.
Mais les bijoux perdus de l'antique Palmyre,Les métaux inconnus, les perles de la mer,Par votre main montés, ne pourraient pas suffireA ce beau diadème éblouissant et clair;
Car il ne sera fait que de pure lumière,Puisée au foyer saint des rayons primitifs,Et dont les yeux mortels, dans leur splendeur entière,Ne sont que des miroirs obscurcis et plaintifs!»
Benediction
When, after a decree of the supreme powers, The Poet is brought forth in this wearisome world, His mother terrified and full of blasphemies Raises her clenched fist to God, who pities her:
— "Ah! would that I had spawned a whole knot of vipersRather than to have fed this derisive object!Accursed be the night of ephemeral joyWhen my belly conceived this, my expiation!
Since of all women You have chosen meTo be repugnant to my sorry spouse,And since I cannot cast this misshapen monsterInto the flames, like an old love letter,
I shall spew the hatred with which you crush me downOn the cursed instrument of your malevolence,And twist so hard this wretched treeThat it cannot put forth its pestilential buds!"
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