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      What is it that leads poets and critics to speak of Baudelaire as the founder of modern poetry? But there were many other poets living on the fringes of a hostile society, so this does little to explain Baudelaire's significance. Paul Verlaine, one of the first to declare Baudelaire's overwhelming importance, claimed that 'the profound originality of Charles Baudelaire is to represent powerfully and essentially modern man'—'modern man, made what he is by the refinements of excessive civilization, modern man with his sharpened and vibrant senses, his painfully subtle mind, his brain saturated with tobacco, and his blood poisoned by alcohol'.

      And T. Eliot writes, 'Baudelaire is indeed the greatest exemplar in modern poetry in any language, for his verse and language is the nearest thing to a complete renovation that we have experienced. But his renovation of an attitude towards life is no less radical and no less important. Clearly there is more to this than alcohol, tobacco, and nervousness, and one wants to know what it is about The Flowers of Evil, given its conservatism in matters of poetic form, that makes it seem to explore the possibility of a distinctly modern experience.

      A first answer is this poetry's ability to bring into verse the banal, the prosaic, or the disgusting—thought to loom especially large in modern life—and give it a poetic function. Praising the power of the beloved's saliva as well as her eyes 'Poison' , comparing the sky to the lid of a pot 'Spleen IV ' , or suggesting that we become attached to feeling remorse, 'as beggars take to nourishing their lice' 'To the Reader' , Baudelaire produces dissonant combinations, which can be seen as reflecting the dissociated character of modern experience, where consciousness is confronted by objects, sensations, and experiences that do not go together.

      The very title, The Flowers of Evil, underlines an aesthetic of bizarre combinations. In addition, dissonant images foreground the operations of language themselves and the problem of sensemaking that is so central to the play of modern literature. Second, Baudelaire is a poet of the city, the first, as Albert Thibaudet wrote, to create a new situation for poetry by taking as the norm life in large cities and the new human relationships and temporality that urban life creates, as men and women pass among people they do not know in settings marked by an everchanging history.

      But this is not descriptive poetry of the city, glorying in sights and sounds. The section called 'Parisian Scenes' would surprise anyone expecting urban descriptions, for it begins with 'Landscape', in which the poet, looking out over the roof-tops, claims he will close his shutters and conjure up a world out of his imagination. And when we do get description, it may be something like this: Meanwhile, corrupting demons of the air Slowly wake up like men of great affairs.

      And, flying, bump our shutters and our eaves. Against the glimmerings teased by the breeze Old Prostitution blazes in the streets; She opens out her nest-of-ants retreat; Everywhere she clears the secret routes, A stealthy force preparing for a coup; She moves within this city made of mud, A worm who steals from man his dailv food.

      This forgotten essay of Thibaudet's is among the best, most original discussions of Baudelaire. The tables at the inns where gamesmen sport Are full of swindlers, sluts, and all their sort. Robbers who show no pity to their prey Get ready for their nightly work-a-day Of cracking safes and deftly forcing doors, To live a few days more and dress their whores.

      This poetry creates a level of event at which personifications, such as Prostitution, can act along with the demons and the robbers, swindlers, beggars, and other urban types. The low-life figures who parade through the Parisian scenes—sinister old men, broken-down old women, gamblers, criminals, and prostitutes—arc figures as much imagined as observed, like the seven appalling and identical creatures of 'The Seven Old Men' who, appearing one after another before the speaker, threaten his sanity and cast him loose like a mastless ship on a monstrous sea.

      Some of Baudelaire's greatest poems—'The Swan', 'The Little Old Women', 'The Seven Old Men'—belong to 'Parisian Scenes', but as their narrators wander through the 'sinuous coils of the old capitals', the encounters with these grotesque figures become above all struggles over meaning, attempts to understand their mystery.

      These struggles can produce pleasure—the satisfication of empathy in 'The Little Old Women'—or melancholy at the oppressiveness of the interpretive process: Paris may change, but in my melancholy mood Nothing has budged! New palaces, blocks, scaffoldings, Old neighbourhoods, are allegorical for me And my dear memories are heavier than stone. But Victor Hugo had written poems of the city—about beggars, prostitutes, and working men, among others—and Baudelaire declared Hugo 'the most gifted, the most visibly elected to express through poetry what I will call the mystery of life'.

      What was different about Baudelaire's poetry? The repudiation of sentimental themes is a major aspect of Baudelaire's modernity. Baudelaire complained about Hugo's prostitutes with hearts of gold and criminals with consciences, and proposed to write a story of an unrepentant criminal enjoying the fruits of his crimes. Hugo wrote a poem called 'Never Insult a Woman who is Falling', but Baudelaire always insults, while lamenting and celebrating at the same time.

      His 'Little Old Women' are 'singular beings with appalling charms': These dislocated wrecks were women once. They toddle, every bit like marionettes, Or drag themselves like wounded animals. They 'trudge on, stoic, without complaint, Through the chaotic city's teeming waste', and the poet who follows them, as other men would follow a beautiful young woman, observes 'with tenderness, and restless eye intent', imaginatively sharing their 'lost days', their secret pleasures and fears. They are 'Ruins!

      As in the poems about lesbians and about heterosexual love, the harshness and shifts of mood give this verse what seems a modern complexity. These changes of tone are part of the irony and selfconsciousness that mark Baudelaire's verse, where the speakers often turn and reflect upon what they have been saying or doing and its implications. She's in my voice, in all I do!

      Her poison flows in all my veins! The irony described here is inseparable from a process of poetic self-dramatization: the rhetorical resources of the poetic imagination become a source of self-torture as well as of perverse satisfaction. Less extreme and grandiloquent, and perhaps the more sinister, is the movement of 'Gaming', which begins with the description of decrepit gamblers and prostitutes in a shabby gaming house.

      This turns out to be a dream or vision of the speaker, in which he sees himself mutely envying 'these men's tenacious lust, The morbid gaiety of these old whores'. Reflecting on the implications of this vision, though, he is frightened that he should envy 'this poor lot Who rush so fervently to the abyss'. It is indeed a peculiar condition, of the sort these poems excel in portraying. When the focus of interest in the poem is not objects and events themselves but the speaker's relation to them and his responses to this relation, then we have dramas of consciousness which readers and critics have found particularly modern.

      The poem begins: iMore memories than if I'd lived a thousand years! A giant chest of drawers, stuffed to the full, With balance sheets, love letters, lawsuits, verse Romances, locks of hair rolled in receipts, Hides fewer secrets than my sullen skull. It is a pyramid, a giant vault, Holding more corpses than a common grave. What could be thought of as a wealth of memories is experienced as excessive or oppressive, unmasterable as the experience of a subject.

      The imaginative operations of an ironic, selfreflective consciousness transform this heterogeneous series of writings and documents into so much dead matter: first more corpses than the common grave, and then, in an image which one contemporary reviewer quoted as summing up The Flowers of Evil, 'a graveyard hated by the moon'. As the accumulated memories become dead matter, ennui takes on immortal proportions. Ennui is the force of boredom and depression that 'To the Reader' calls the ugliest, meannest, most obscene monster in the human zoo.

      You are of granite, wrapped in a vague dread, Slumbering in some Sahara's hazy sands, An ancient sphinx lost to a careless world, Forgotten on the map, whose haughty mood Sings only in the glow of setting sun. The very hyperbole of the images—a graveyard hated by the moon, a piece of granite wrapped in a vague dread—suggests that we are dealing not with empirical incidents or predicaments but with the drama of a generalized modern consciousness.

      The poem's emphatic denial that any of the experiences or memories are themselves of interest leaves the impression that any value must lie in the operations of consciousness themselves, such as memory, revulsion, or selfcriticism. Such operations of consciousness, this poetry shows, can even give an interest and value to the most horrendous conditions—such as being more full of dead bodies than a common grave.

      The perverse pleasure that the modern subject dramatized in the poem takes in representing itself as a forgotten sphinx grumpily singing in the desert suggests that there are ways of surviving the disintegration and depcrsonalization of the self described here, that whatever the modern threats to the self, a certain poetic consciousness can salvage at least itself from the collapse of signification and value, and that, thus, the subject remains the source of meaning and untranscendable horizon.

      If Baudelaire is seen as the prophet of modernity, it is no doubt because his lyrics can be read as asking how one can experience or come to terms with the modern world and as offering poetic consciousness as a solution—albeit a desperate one, requiring a passage through negativity. Baudelaire's irony often works in a different way, without involving the dramatization of the ironic attitude of a speaker. Frequently, for example, irony results from readers' perceptions of discrepancies between poems: it is not so much that a speaker is being ironic as that the formulations of one poem undercut or ironically frame those of another.

      In a prose poem, Baudelaire writes ironically of the poet losing his halo as he dashes across a muddy street and deciding not to advertise for its return—a more modern attitude, no doubt. Alerted by this text and by the self-consciousness of others, one can notice odd things about 'Benediction': while the poet of 'To the Reader' claimed, in a convincing conclusion, to be the twin of or brother to the hypocrite reader, the poet described in the very next poem, 'Benediction', has no relation to earthly readers.

      A parody of the visionary poet, he pays no attention to what happens around him and nothing earthly is good enough for him. The blinding light of his majestic intellect, we are told, blots out the sight of angry mortals, such as his wife and mother. This poet, one realizes, could not have written this poem, much of whose energy comes from its representation of the fury and plottings of mother and wife; therefore, one can scarcely accept as gospel the poem's account of the poet.

      It seems to present a traditional myth of the poet, which will be gradually undercut by the actual workings of the poems of The Flowers of Evil. The fourth poem in the collection, 'Correspondences', is often read as Baudelaire's affirmation of a traditional notion: that the poet's task is to convey correspondences between things terrestrial and celestial, revealing the spiritual significance of earthly matters.

      In fact, the poem gives us a much stranger, more uncertain vision. A literal translation of the opening quatrains would read: 'Nature is a temple where living pillars often let emerge confused words; man passes through forests of symbols which observe him with familiar looks. Like long echoes which heard from afar are confused together in a shadowy and profound unity, as vast as night and as luminescence, smells, colours, and sounds answer one another.

      Another important feature of Baudelaire's verse which is not reducible to the experience of a subject or consciousness is its use of personification or abstract agents to establish dramas of meaning. I can experience anguish but if Anguish plants its black flag in my bowed skull, as happens in the fourth 'Spleen' poem, this is not the experience of a subject but a risky attempt to describe problems of the human condition more powerfully by abandoning the level of individual experience for a different kind of narrative.

      This sort of writing has often been called allegorical, but that term simplifies rather than clarifies the strange procedures of Baudelairian verse, which we observed earlier: in 'Dusk' a series of most diverse protagonists—the demons who get up heavily like businessmen, Prostitution which lights up in the streets, and the robbers and whores who go about their business—converge in a special linguistic space.

      In these non-realistic narratives we find operating a host of Baudelairian figures: Evil, Ennui, Spleen, Pain, Demons, and, perhaps most important, the Devil himself. V The Devil—here is one thing that makes Baudelaire seem scarcely modern. Surely the Devil is an archaic myth, an outmoded piece of mythological machinery, no longer taken very seriously even by practising Christians. What can an enlightened religion do with a scrawny red man with horns, hooves, tail, and pitchfork? Baudelaire considered himself a Catholic, but his 9 For discussion see Jonathan Culler, 'Baudelaire's "Correspondances": Intertextuality and Interpretation', in Christopher Prendergast, ed.

      The poems frequently play upon religious imagery, but the clearest sign of religion in his poetry and prose is the Devil. Modern critics who concur on little else seem to agree that this side of Baudelaire—the Baudelaire of Satan, Demons, and Evil with a capital E—is of little interest or importance, not part of Baudelaire's and our modernity but the stale remnant of a gothic Romanticism which boldly invoked infernal powers.

      This consensus suggests, at the very least, that there might be something disquieting at issue in this aspect of Baudelaire's poetry and that we should at least ask about the significance of the Devil in what are, after all, 'The Flowers of Evil'. On evil's pillow lies the alchemist, Satan Thrice-Great, who lulls our captive soul, And all the richest metal of our will Is vaporized by his hermetic arts.

      Sometimes he makes us act, sometimes prevents us from having the will to act as we would. The first seven stanzas of 'The Irremediable' present a series of images of human oppression and entrapment which, the poem suggests, illustrate Satan's effectiveness: Pure emblems, a perfect tableau Of an irremediable evil, Which makes us think that the Devil Does well what he chooses to do! But the phrase 'makes us think' leaves open the possibility that we may be mistaken.

      Perhaps the Devil isn't really responsible for these disasters and entrapments after all. What is most diabolical about the Devil, we might say, is that we can never be sure when he is at work. I swallow him; he inspires eternal and guilty desires; he leads me into the plains of Ennui. Sometimes he takes 'a woman's form—most perfect, most corrupt'. Elsewhere Baudelaire speaks of love as a 'Satanic religion' and of an 'ineluctable Satanic logic' whereby fleshly pleasure leads to the delights of crime.

      The speaker of 'The Possessed' reports that every fibre of his body cries to his beloved, 'O my Beelzebub, I worship you! When the sinister old man in 'The Seven Old Men' seems to multiply himself seven times, the speaker suspects a diabolical plot, but it could also be just 'wicked chance' that humiliates him by making him suspect a plot. We might say that the figure of the Devil poses the general question of whether there is a meaning to the scenarios in which we are caught up or misfortunes that befall us, or whether they are simply accidents.

      Can we escape our sense that there are malignant forces that operate independently of human intentions or that the world often works against us? As the prose poem 'The Generous Gambler' puts it, 'the Devil's subtlest ruse is to convince us that he doesn't exist'. If the Devil is the name of a force that works on us against our will—if, as Baudelaire says in 'To the Reader', 'all the richest metal of our will Is vaporized by his hermetic arts'— isn't he just a personification of aspects of what Freud called the Unconscious or the Id, forces that make us do what our conscious selves might reject?

      Baudelaire, though, had thought about this possibility and in his prose poem 'The Bad Glazier' speaks of 'that mood [humeur] termed hysterical by doctors and Satanical by those who think rather more clearly than doctors, which pushes us unresisting towards a host of dangerous or unsuitable actions'. The Satanical hypothesis is clearer thinking, one surmises, because it adduces not an individual disorder but impersonal structures and forces. When Gustave Flaubert objected to Baudelaire that he 'insisted too much on the Evil Spirif l'Esprit du Mal , Baudelaire replied, 'I have always been obsessed by the impossibility of accounting for some of man's sudden actions or thoughts without the hypothesis of the intervention of an evil force outside him— Here's a scandalous avowal for which the whole nineteenth century won't make me blush'.

      Christian theology introduces the Devil to account for the presence of evil in the world. If God is not to be held responsible for evil, there must be another creature whose free choice in deviating from good introduced evil. The Devil, thus, is not a symbol of evil but an agent or personification whose ability to act is essential.

      The Flnwen of Evil make him an actor as well, along with other unexpected agents: Prostitution, which lights up in the streets; Anguish, which plants its black flag in my skull; Ennui, who puffs on his hookah and dreams of gallows; and many other figures who people these poems. To dismiss Satan as just a 'personification' of evil requires remarkable confidence about what can and what cannot act.

      Behind this may lie the wishful presumption that only human individuals can act, that they control the world and that there are no other agents; but the world would be a very different place if this were true. Much of its difficulty as well as its mystery comes from the effects produced by actions of other sorts of agents—history, language, 'the market'—which our grammars may personify. These poems, in which Anguish, Autumn, Beauty, Ennui, Hope, Hate and others do their work, pose questions about the constituents and boundaries of persons, about the forces that can act in the world, and about whether this level of allegorical action does not best capture the realities of body, spirit, and history.

      In his 'Epigraph for a Condemned Book', Baudelaire takes up again the distinction between the hysterical and the Satanic that we encountered in 'The Bad Glazier' and urges any reader who has not studied rhetoric with Satan to throw away this 'Saturnian book': unless you've learned Your rhetoric in Satan's school You will not understand a word, You'll think I am hysterical.

      Satan the tempter or seducer is a master of persuasive discourse, but rhetoric in this sense would work on novices as well as experts, so the epigraph must rather have in view rhetoric as a way of analysing and articulating the world.

      When Baudelaire speaks of the best contemporary literature as 'essentially Satanic', he hints at such a notion. To see The Flowers of Evil as a Satanic rhetoric is to read it as an exposition or articulation of uncanny forces forces of evil that structure our lives and imaginings.

      Many readers of Baudelaire's time did think him hysterical, but Baudelaire was convinced that, as he put it in 'To the Reader', whatever our hypocritical claims, we are thoroughly familiar with the forces and figures that people such a world, such as Ennui, 'this dainty monster'. Whether we know it or not, we have studied with Satan and may hope to understand Baudelaire's book.

      It contained one hundred poems, plus the prefatory poem 'To the Reader': the vast majority of these poems, seventy-seven, comprised the first section, 'Spleen and the Ideal'; twelve were included in the section entitled 'Flowers of Evil', three in 'Revolt', five in 'Wine', and three in the final section, 'Death'.

      A table listing the poems of this edition and their placement follows on pp. In the trial of , six poems were condemned for offence to public morals; the copies of the first edition were seized and the six poems were forbidden to be published in France.

      In fact, the decision condemning them was reversed only in , nearly a century later, although editions of Les Fleurs du Mal containing the banned poems had been sold for some time without attracting the attention of the police. Since most of the first edition had been confiscated, Baudelaire and Poulet-Malassis needed to produce a second edition.

      With considerable irritation, Baudelaire went back to work: 'To have to start again on these damned Fleurs du MalV he complained 19 Feb. He undertook to compose twenty new poems, but in fact turned out to be one of his greatest periods of creativity and the new edition, which finally appeared early in , contained thirty-five new poems.

      In addition, Baudelaire made some changes, mostly minor, to the poems already published. This edition, also published by Poulet-Malassis, is the one generally followed by modern editions of Baudelaire and is the one used here. It has the disadvantage, however, of omitting from the body of the work the six banned poems; we have chosen to reinsert them according to their place in the edition. This procedure has the advantage of enriching the sections to which these six poems belong and of preventing readers from considering them above all as poems that were banned.

      Arrangement of Poems in the First Two Editions of 'Les Fleurs du Mal' A dash — in the column indicates that the poem listed on the same line in the column appears here in Poems whose names appear in the list are new, unless their former place in the edition is indicated in brackets.

      To the Reader Spleen and the Ideal 1. Benediction 2. The Sun [87 in ] 3. Elevation 4. Correspondences 5. The Beacons 7. The Sick Muse 8. The Venal Muse 9. The Wretched Monk The Enemy Ill Fortune A Former Life Gypsies Travelling Man and the Sea Punishment for Pride Beauty The Albatross The Giantess The Jewels [banned] The Mask Hymn to Beauty The Vampire Lethe [banned] Duellum — — The Living Torch Reversibility Confession The Spiritual Dawn The Harmony of Evening The Flask Poison Misty Sky The Splendid ship Invitation to the Voyage The Irreparable Conversation — Heautontimoroumenos [83 in ] Praises for My Francisca For a Creole Lady The Ghost [72 in ] Autumn Sonnet Sorrows of the Moon [75 in ] Owls The Pipe [77 in ] Music [76 in ] Burial [74 in ] A Fantastical Engraving The Happy Corpse [73 in ] The Cask of Hate [71 in ] Obsession The Taste for Nothingness Mists and Rains [ in i86il Alchemy of Suffering Congenial Horror Heautonlimoroumenos [52 in ] The Irremediable To a Red-Haired Beggar Girl [88 in ] Gaming [96 in ] Dusk [95 in ] Dawn [ in ] The Cask of Hate [73 in ] The Ghost [63 in ] The Happy Corpse [72 in ] Burial [70 in ] Sorrows of the Moon [65 in ] Music [69 in ] The Pipe [68 in ] Gaming [66 in ] Dame macabre The Love of Illusion Mists and Rains [63 in i] Dawn [68 in ] Wine [section transposed from its place following Revolt in ] The Soul of Wine The Ragman's Wine The Murderer's Wine The Solitary's Wine Destruction A Martyr The Flowers of Evil Lesbos [banned] Condemned Women: Delphine and Hippolyta [banned] Condemned Women in.

      A Beatrice The Metamorphoses of the Vampire [banned] Passion and the Skull Revolt go. Litanies of Satan The Death of the Artists Revolt Wine Section transposed to above Death Voyaging The edition of The Flamen of Evil, which we are reprinting here, brought four major changes. This rearrangement, together with the insertion at the end of'Spleen and the Ideal' of a number of poems about self-torment and the oppressions of life, gave this section a different, more intense ending—indeed, a climax that had been lacking in Critics agree that the edition is a stronger collection, not only because of the new poems, but because of the rearrangement Baudelaire produced.

      Later in the i86os, Baudelaire wished to publish a further edition of The Flowers of Evil as part of a collected edition of his works but had not succeeded in negotiating arrangements with a publisher before he fell ill. In Baudelaire and PouletMalassis decided to reprint the banned poems along with some others in Belgium, where books banned in France were often published. The cover claimed that it was published in Amsterdam 'At the Sign of the Cock' but it was actually printed by Poulet-Malassis in Brussels.

      An unsigned Editor's Note stated: 'This collection consists of poems, for the most part banned or unpublished, which Mr. We print the other sixteen poems in the order in which they appeared. This volume, the third edition of The Flowers of Evil, appeared in In producing this edition, Asselineau and Banville used a copy of the edition in which Baudelaire himself had inserted eleven further poems.

      It is not known for certain which poems these were, much less where Baudelaire would have liked to have had them inserted, if indeed he had made any such decision in , when Michel Levy visited Baudelaire during his illness and expressed a wish to begin publishing the complete works straight away, Baudelaire, though he could not speak, made it clear by gestures, pointing to dates in a diary, that he wanted Levy to wait three months—presumably in the hope that he would have recovered and could have a hand in the arrangement.

      Baudelaire el Asselineau Paris: Nizet, , In the edition of The Flowers of Evil, twenty of the twenty-five additional poems were placed by Asselineau and Banville together in a group towards the end of 'Spleen and the Ideal', between no. The order of the other twenty poems in the edition is as follows after 'Congenial Horror', no. Intimate Journals, trans. Norman Cameron London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, Jonathan Mayne London: Phaidon Press, Jonathan Mayne London: Phaidon Press,!

      Garret Harmondsworth: Penguin, Baudelaire as Literary Critic: Selected Essays, trans. Graham Robb London: Hamish Hamilton, The following are recommended. A surprising and revealing comparison. Extremely influential. A brilliant, resourceful reading focused especially on the love poetry. Bloom, Harold, ed. A selection of valuable essays on the poet. Studies Baudelaire's most creative period. Richard Howard London: Jonathan Cape, A splendid reading of The Flowers of Evil, which takes a dream as a point of departure and means of integration.

      A challenging discussion of 'Correspondences' and of the problem of the lyric. Eliot, T. A short essay on the importance of Baudelaire and his poetry. Excellent chapter on Baudelaire as a late Romantic. Leakey, F. A study of key themes. Efficient scholarly essays on a range of topics. Mossop, D. Seeks to elucidate Ees Fleurs du Mal as a story with a plot.

      Includes classic essays by Marcel Proust, T. Eliot, Erich Auerbach, and others. Sartre, Jean-Paul, Baudelaire, trans. Martin Turnell London: Hamish Hamilton, A controversial, rewarding 'existential psychoanalysis', which presents Baudelaire as choosing his fate. A useful overview. Becomes involved with Jeanne Duval, a mulatto actress with whom he lives off and on for most of his life. June: announces to Ancelle his intention to kill himself but recovers quickly from a slight wound.

      October: advertisement of the imminent publication of The Lesbians, a collection of poems which never appeared. July: participates in the uprisings against the conservative turn of new legislature created after the success of the February Revolution. Baudelaire's first translation of Poe is published 'The Mesmeric Revolution'. October: appointed editor of a conservative provincial journal, The Indre Herald, but leaves after a few days. A collection of his poems entitled Limbo is announced.

      Publication of part of Artificial Paradises. June: publication of The Flowers of Evil. July: seizure of the edition. They are sentenced to pay fines and six poems are banned. August: publication of six prose poems. February: second edition of The Flowers of Evil, containing thirty-two new poems. Publication of nine critical articles on contemporary writers. November: publication of nine prose poems. December: to the amazement of friends and enemies, Baudelaire presents himself as a candidate for a vacant seat in the French Academy, finally withdrawing as it becomes obvious he is gaining no votes.

      Signs of poor health appear. Goes to Brussels to give lectures, where, despite his reiterated dislike for Belgium, he remains for two years. February: Les Epaves The Waifs , a collection of twentythree miscellaneous poems, including the six condemned Florvers of Evil, is published in Brussels. March: Baudelaire collapses in Namur, Belgium.

      Beginnings of aphasia and paralysis. August: Baudelaire is brought back to Paris. He never recovers the power of speech and dies on 31 August. Presuming to translate a great poet, Charles Baudelaire, I was poignantly aware that he had not chosen me to be his collaborator, and that he would have no active say in what his work was to become in my hands.

      My first allegiance, then, is to Baudelaire, to be a colleague in some way worthy of him. But I have another allegiance as well, to the English-speaking reader of poetry, which requires me to produce in every case, to the best of my creative ability, a poem that will provide the kind of satisfaction to be gained from reading poetry originally created in English.

      It is unfortunately true that no translator succeeds in this ambition more than part of the time; still, one tries all of the time. As John Frederick Nims has put it, 'the greatest infidelity is to pass off a bad poem in English as representing a good poem in another language'. I act as a poet when I am devising my translations, and it is as a poet that I hope to serve both Baudelaire and the modern reader. Can there be too many translations of a poet of central importance like Charles Baudelaire?

      Perhaps so, but will there ever be enough good ones: accurate and poetic? Each translator necessarily brings himself into the equation, so that in each new version Baudelaire will be found transmuted, not only presented in an alien language, but alloyed with an alien sensibility, no two translations ever being alike. The reader with little or no French who would come to Baudelaire should try several routes—read several translations.

      As translator I have studied all other translations I have come across, while remaining faithful, I trust, to the voice or voices in which I myself can best replicate Baudelaire's poetic effects. As 'modern', as frequently outrageous as Baudelaire is in subject and imagery, he is most often traditional in form. What I've tried most to capture, then, is this tension between modern or romantic subject, and classical form I oversimplify, but the point must be made , which is for me the wonder of Baudelaire's poetic voice.

      The translator must attempt in some way, in every poem, to capture this tension: to miss it is to lose Baudelaire, indeed to betray him. Concerning Baudelaire's formality, all of his poems rhyme, and many are written in the classic, i2-syllable alexandrine line. Here arise two major problems, and matters for decision, for translators into English. Edna St Vincent Millay, for instance, insisted on rhyming every poem, and maintaining the i2-syllable line. Richard I loward, on the other hand, has given over the alexandrine in favour of that standby in English, the iambic pentameter line, and he does not attempt regular rhyme, employing other technical devices to try to represent Baudelaire's formality of sound.

      As for me, I have worked on a case-by-case basis, varying my practice as need be. I often translate first into a long line version, then I try reducing the line to the pentameter. If this reduction does not involve losing or distorting crucial imagery, and if as is usually true it produces a livelier movement in English, I use the shorter, more familiar line.

      I the case of some poems, though, the alexandrine does seem to work gracefully in English, and I have stayed with it e. As for rhyme, I have tried hard to get it, but have not always succeeded. I try not to corrupt imagery or meaning, or even distort meaningful syntax, to force rhyme. In 'The Death of the Poor', for instance, the last stanza depends for its impact on strict syntactical parallelism; I could not rhyme the poem and still replicate this parallelism, so I dropped the rhyme.

      I had better luck with 'Heautontimoroumenos', where in the penultimate stanza a similar parallelism occurs; this I was able to reproduce while maintaining the rhyming pattern of the original. I have found, then, what Stephen Mitchell found in translating Rilke: 'Translating poems into equivalent formal patterns is to some extent a matter of luck, or grace, and this is especially true of rhymed poems'.

      Mitchell cites Rilke, who called rhyme 'a goddess of secret and ancient coincidences', and said that 'she comes as happiness comes, hands filled with an achievement that is already in flower'. One works to prepare the way for this goddess, but if rhyme does not appear one must concentrate on other dimensions of form to devise the equivalencies that will show readers at least something of what they would find in the techniques of the original.

      A related problem for the translator has to do with rhythms. French is not an accented language, and its poetic lines do not move in the iambic, trochaic, anapaestic, or dactylic rhythmic patterns of English. It is well enough to use the 'standard' English iambic pentameter in place of the 'standard' French alexandrine, and I have often done so.

      Still, these lines differ not only in length, but in movement, and there are times in my translations when I deviate from the iambic into triple metre as in 'Beauty' , or into a line in which I count accents rather than syllables e. Ultimately, it is true, the rhythms of all these translations are those of English rather than French, but it can not be otherwise; French and English rhythms will not turn into one another any more than will the sounds of these languages, or their vocabularies. When I began thinking about translating Baudelaire and putting my thoughts into practice, I was encouraged by two friends who were then my colleagues at Illinois Wesleyan University, Sue Huseman and Salvador J.

      Later I received valuable help and encouragement from my colleague James Matthews. I thank the National Endowment for the Humanities for sponsoring my participation in the summer seminar of Albert Sonnenfeld then of Princeton , who encouraged my Baudelaire work.

      The reception of this book encouraged me to finish the job of translating all the Fleurs, which I accomplished thanks in large part to a sabbatical leave from Illinois Wesleyan in Laudes for my wife, Anne W. McGowan, who provided a literal rendition of the Latin of 'Praises for My Francisca' and spent many hours proofreading these translations in their various forms. Finally, thanks to Jonathan Culler and to Oxford University Press for their critiques both of my translations and of the notes for this volume; for infelicities that may remain after their painstaking scrutiny, the sole responsibility is mine.

      Northeast: 'Sorrows of the Moon'. Southern Humanities Review. Translation: 'Dusk'. C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent! To the Reader Folly and error, stinginess and sin Possess our spirits and fatigue our flesh. And like a pet we feed our tame remorse As beggars take to nourishing their lice. Our sins are stubborn, our contrition lax; We offer lavishly our vows of faith And turn back gladly to the path of filth, Thinking mean tears will wash away our stains.

      Truly the Devil pulls on all our strings! In most repugnant objects we find charms; Each day we're one step further into Hell, Content to move across the stinking pit. As a poor libertine will suck and kiss The sad, tormented tit of some old whore, We steal a furtive pleasure as we pass, A shrivelled orange that we squeeze and press.

      Close, swarming, like a million writhing worms, A demon nation riots in our brains, And, when we breathe, death flows into our lungs, A secret stream of dull, lamenting cries. If slaughter, or if arson, poison, rape Have not as yet adorned our fine designs, The banal canvas of our woeful fates, It's only that our spirit lacks the nerve. But there with all the jackals, panthers, hounds, The monkeys, scorpions, the vultures, snakes, Those howling, yelping, grunting, crawling brutes, The infamous menagerie of vice, One creature only is most foul and false!

      Though making no grand gestures, nor great cries, He willingly would devastate the earth And in one yawning swallow all the world; He is Ennui! Reader, you know this dainty monster too; —Hypocrite reader,—fellowman,—my twin! Benediction When, by an edict of the powers supreme, The Poet in this bored world comes to be, His daunted mother, eager to blaspheme, Rages to God, who looks down piteously: —'Rather than have this mockery to nurse Why not a nest of snakes for me to bear!

      Since from all women you chose me to shame, To be disgusting to my grieving spouse, And since I can't just drop into the flames Like an old love-note, this misshapen mouse, I'll turn your hate that overburdens me Toward the damned agent of your spiteful doom, And I will twist this miserable tree So its infected buds will never bloom! Still, with an angel guarding secretly, The misfit child grows drunk on sunny air; In all he drinks or eats in ecstasy He finds sweet nectar and ambrosia there.

      Free as a bird, he plays with clouds and wind, Sings of the Passion with enraptured joy; Tending his pilgrimage, his Guardian Must weep to see the gladness of the boy. In bread and wine intended for his mouth They muddle filthy spit with dirt and ash; Hypocrites, all that he touches they throw out, And blame their feet for walking in his path. His woman cries to all the countryside: 'Since he has found me worthy to adore I'll let the heathen idols be my guide And gild myself, as they have done before; I'll sate myself with incense, myrrh, and nard, With genuflections, meats and wines galore, To prove I can in that admiring heart Laughingly claim the homage due the Lord!

      I'll dig the bright red heart out of his breast, A pitiful and trembling baby bird; To satisfy the dog I like the best I'll toss it to him, with a scornful word! The Albatross Often, when bored, the sailors of the crew Trap albatross, the great birds of the seas, Mild travellers escorting in the blue Ships gliding on the ocean's mysteries.

      And when the sailors have them on the planks, Hurt and distraught, these kings of all outdoors Piteously let trail along their flanks Their great white wings, dragging like useless oars. This voyager, how comical and weak! Once handsome, how unseemly and inept! One sailor pokes a pipe into his beak, Another mocks the flier's hobbled step. Elevation Above the valleys, over rills and meres, Above the mountains, woods, the oceans, clouds, Beyond the sun, past all ethereal bounds, Beyond the borders of the starry spheres, My agile spirit, how you take your flight!

      Like a strong swimmer swooning on the sea You gaily plough the vast immensity With manly, inexpressible delight. Fly far above this morbid, vaporous place; Go cleanse yourself in higher, finer air, And drink up, like a pure, divine liqueur, Bright fire, out of clear and limpid space.

      Beyond ennui, past troubles and ordeals That load our dim existence with their weight, Happy the strong-winged man, who makes the great Leap upward to the bright and peaceful fields! The man whose thoughts, like larks, take to their wings Each morning, freely speeding through the air, —Who soars above this life, interpreter Of flowers' speech, the voice of silent things!

      Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d'enfants, Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies, — Et d'autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants, Ayant l'expansion des choses infinies, Comme l'ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l'encens, Qui chantent les transports de l'esprit et des sens. Correspondences Nature is a temple, where the living Columns sometimes breathe confusing speech; Man walks within these groves of symbols, each Of which regards him as a kindred thing.

      As the long echoes, shadowy, profound, Heard from afar, blend in a unity, Vast as the night, as sunlight's clarity, So perfumes, colours, sounds may correspond. Then women, men in their agility Played without guile, without anxiety, And, while the sky stroked lovingly their skin, They tuned to health their excellent machine.

      O ridicules troncs! Monstrosities that cry out to be clothed! Bodies grotesque and only fit for masques! And pale as tapers, all you women too Corruption gnaws and nourishes, and you O virgins, heir to all maternal vice And all the squalor of the fecund life! It's true, we have in our corrupted states Beauties unknown to ancient people's tastes: Visages gnawed by sores of syphilis, And one might say, beauties of listlessness; But these inventions of our tardy muse Never avert the sickly modern crew From rendering to youth their deepest bow, —To holy youth, to smooth, untroubled brow, To limpid eye, to air of innocence, Who pours out on us all, indifferent As flowers, birds, the blue of sky or sea, His perfumes, songs, his sweet vitality!

      For it is truly, Lord, best witness in the world That we might give to you of human dignity, This ardent sob that rolls onward from age to age And comes to die in meeting your eternity! The Sick Muse My wretched muse, what does the morning bring? Dream visions haunt your eyes, and I discern, Reflected in the shadings of your skin, Madness and horror, cold and taciturn. Has nightmare with his proud unruly grip Sunk you within some fabulous Minturnes?

      The Venal Muse O muse of mine, in love with palaces, Will you, when January flings his winds, In the black tedium of snowy nights, Find half-burned logs to warm your purple feet? Your mottled shoulders, will they flush to warmth As moonbeams slip inside our window glass?

      Knowing your purse and palate both are dry, Will you glean gold out of the azure vaults? The Wretched Monk Old monasteries under steadfast walls Displayed tableaux of holy Verity, Warming the inner men in those cold halls Against the chill of their austerity. Those times, when seeds of Christ would thrive and grow, More than one monk, now in obscurity, Taking the graveyard as his studio, Ennobled Death, in all simplicity.

      Le Guignon Pour soulever un poids si lourd, Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage! O slothful monk! Oh, when may I assign This living spectacle of misery To labour of my hands, my eyes' delight? The Enemy When I was young I lived a constant storm, Though now and then the brilliant suns shot through, So in my garden few red fruits were born, The rain and thunder had so much to do.

      Now are the autumn days of thought at hand, And I must use the rake and spade to groom, Rebuild and cultivate the washed-out land The water had eroded deep as tombs. And who knows if the flowers in my mind In this poor sand, swept like a beach, will find The food of soul to gain a healthy start? I cry! Life feeds the seasons' maw And that dark Enemy who gnaws our hearts Battens on blood that drips into his jaws!

      Though the heart for the work may be great, Time is fleeting, and Art is so long! A Former Life I once lived under vast and columned vaults Tinged with a thousand fires by ocean suns, So that their grand, straight pillars would become, In evening light, like grottoes of basalt.

      In surges rolled the images of skies; With solemn, mystic force the sea combined Its harmonies, all-powerful, sublime, With sunset colours, glowing in my eyes. So there I lived, in a voluptuous calm Surrounded by the sea, by splendid blue, And by my slaves, sweet-scented, handsome, nude, Who cooled my brow with waving of the palms, And had one care—to probe and make more deep What made me languish so, my secret grief. Gypsies Travelling That tribe of prophets with the burning eyes Is on the road, their babies on their backs, Who satisfy their appetite attacks With treasured breasts that always hang nearby.

      Man and the Sea Free man, you'll love the ocean endlessly! It is your mirror, you observe your soul In how its billows endlessly unroll— Your spirit's bitter depths are there to see. You plunge in joy to your reflection's core, With eyes and heart seizing it all along; Your heart sometimes neglects its proper song Distracted by the ocean's savage roar. And yet, because you both love death and strife, You've fought each other through the endless years With no remorse, without a pitying tear— Relentless brothers, enemies for life!

      Sganarelle badgered him to get his pay, While Don Luis, with trembling gesture there, Showed all the dead who lined the waterway That shameless son, who'd mocked his old grey hair. Quivering with grief, Elvira, chaste and thin, Near to her lover and unfaithful spouse, Seemed to be begging one last smile of him, In which would shine the grace of his first vows. This man who'd tried to grasp beyond his reach, Flushed with Satanic pride, made bold in speech: 'O little Jesus!

      I have raised you high! But if I chose to take the other side, Thou helpless one, I'd bring thy glory low, The Christ child an outlandish embryo! Shrouded in crepe was this once-blazing sun; All chaos rolled in this intelligence Before, a temple, ordered, opulent, Where he'd held forth in pomp beneath its dome. Now in him silence, darkness made their home, As in a cellar vault without a key. And when he crossed the fields unseeingly, As unaware of winter as of spring, Useless and ugly as a wornout thing, He was no better than a common beast, And was the jeering children's special treat.

      I hate only impulse, the breaking of line, And I never will cry, nor will ever show smile. The poets, in view of my lofty design— The style, as it seems, of the finest of statues— Will spend all their days in their painstaking studies Since I have a charm for these suppliant suitors: Pure mirrors, which transform to beauty all things— My eyes, my wide eyes, clear as air, clear as time. At leisure to explore her mighty forms; To climb the slopes of her enormous knees, And sometimes, when the summer's tainted suns Had lain her out across the countryside, To drowse in nonchalance below her breast, Like a calm village in the mountain's shade.

      Et parce qu'elle vit! Let us approach and look from every side! O blasphemy of art! This woman fashioned to embody bliss Is at the top a monster with two heads! O beauty, how I pity you! A beauty who Could have all mankind conquered at her feet, What secret pain gnaws at her hardy flank?

      And that she lives! But what she most deplores, What makes her tremble even to her knees, Is that tomorrow she'll be living still! Tomorrow, every day! Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres? Hymn to Beauty O Beauty! Your eye contains the evening and the dawn; You pour out odours like an evening storm; Your kiss is potion from an ancient jar, That can make heroes cold and children warm.

      Are you of heaven or the nether world? Charmed Destiny, your pet, attends your walk; You scatter joys and sorrows at your whim, And govern all, and answer no man's call. Beauty, you walk on corpses, mocking them; Horror is charming as your other gems, And Murder is a trinket dancing there Lovingly on your naked belly's skin.

      You are a candle where the mayfly dies In flames, blessing this fire's deadly bloom. The panting lover bending to his love Looks like a dying man who strokes his tomb. What difference, then, from heaven or from hell, O Beauty, monstrous in simplicity?

      If eye, smile, step can open me the way To find unknown, sublime infinity? Angel or siren, spirit, I don't care, As long as velvet eyes and perfumed head And glimmering motions, o my queen, can make The world less dreadful, and the time less dead. The Jewels Knowing my heart, my dearest one was nude, Her resonating jewellery all she wore, Which rich array gave her the attitude Of darling in the harem of a Moor.

      When dancing, ringing out its mockeries, This radiating world of gold and stones Ravishes me to lovers' ecstasies Over the interplay of lights and tones. Allowing love, she lay seductively And from the high divan smiled in her ease At my love—ocean's deep felicity Mounting to her as tides draw in the seas. The painting on her brown skin was sublime! An idle isle, where friendly nature brings Singular trees, fruit that is savoury, Men who are lean and vigorous and free, Women whose frank eyes are astonishing.

      Led by your fragrance to these charming shores I see a bay of sails and masts and oars, Still wearied from the onslaught of the waves— While verdant tamarind's enchanting scent, Filling my nostrils, swirling to the brain, Blends in my spirit with the boatmen's chant. La Chevelure O toison, moutonnant jusque sur l'encolure!

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