But Hawthorne worked in his
laboratory of evil wearing mask and gloves; he never descended into the
mud and sin of the street.
laboratory of evil wearing mask and gloves; he never descended into the
mud and sin of the street.
Baudelaire - Poems and Prose Poems
Baudelaire's motto might be
the obverse of Browning's lines: "The Devil is in heaven. All's wrong
with the world. "
When Goethe said of Hugo and the Romanticists that they came
from Chateaubriand, he should have substituted the name of
Rousseau--"Romanticism, it is Rousseau," exclaims Pierre Lasserre. But
there is more of Byron and Petrus Borel--a forgotten half-mad poet--in
Baudelaire; though, for a brief period, in 1848, he became a Rousseau
reactionary, sported the workingman's blouse, cut his hair, shouldered a
musket, went to the barricades, wrote inflammatory editorials calling
the proletarian "Brother! " (oh, Baudelaire! ) and, as the Goncourts
recorded in their diary, had the head of a maniac. How seriously we may
take this swing of the pendulum is to be noted in a speech of the poet's
at the time of the Revolution: "Come," he said, "let us go shoot General
Aupick! " It was his stepfather that he thought of, not the eternal
principles of Liberty. This may be a false anecdote; many such were
foisted upon Baudelaire. For example, his exclamations at cafes or in
public places, such as: "Have you ever eaten a baby? I find it pleasing
to the palate! " or, "The night I killed my father! " Naturally, people
stared and Baudelaire was happy--he had startled a bourgeois. The
cannibalistic idea he may have borrowed from Swift's amusing pamphlet,
for this French poet knew English literature.
Gautier compares the poems to a certain tale of Hawthorne's in which
there is a garden of poisoned flowers.
But Hawthorne worked in his
laboratory of evil wearing mask and gloves; he never descended into the
mud and sin of the street. Baudelaire ruined his health, smudged his
soul, yet remained withal, as Anatole France says, "a divine poet. " How
childish, yet how touching is his resolution--he wrote in his diary of
prayer's dynamic force--when he was penniless, in debt, threatened with
imprisonment, sick, nauseated with sin: "To make every morning my prayer
to God, the reservoir of all force, and all justice; to my father, to
Mariette, and to Poe as intercessors. " (Evidently, Maurice Barres
encountered here his theory of Intercessors. ) Baudelaire loved the
memory of his father as much as Stendhal hated his own. He became
reconciled with his mother after the death of General Aupick, in 1857.
He felt in 1862 that his own intellectual eclipse was approaching, for
he wrote: "I have cultivated my hysteria with joy and terror. To-day
imbecility's wing fanned me as it passed. " The sense of the vertiginous
gulf was abiding with him; read his poem, "Pascal avait son gouffre. "
In preferring the Baudelaire translations of Poe to the original--and
they give the impression of being original works--Stedman agreed with
Asselineau that the French is more concise than the English. The prose
of Poe and Baudelaire is clear, sober, rhythmic; Baudelaire's is more
lapidary, finer in contour, richer coloured, more supple, though without
the "honey and tiger's blood" of Barbey d'Aurevilly. Baudelaire's soul
was patiently built up as a fabulous bird might build its nest--bits of
straw, the sobbing of women, clay, cascades of black stars, rags,
leaves, rotten wood, corroding dreams, a spray of roses, a sparkle of
pebble, a gleam of blue sky, arabesques of incense and verdigris,
despairing hearts and music and the abomination of desolation, for its
ground-tones. But this soul-nest is also a cemetery of the seven
sorrows. He loves the clouds . . .
the obverse of Browning's lines: "The Devil is in heaven. All's wrong
with the world. "
When Goethe said of Hugo and the Romanticists that they came
from Chateaubriand, he should have substituted the name of
Rousseau--"Romanticism, it is Rousseau," exclaims Pierre Lasserre. But
there is more of Byron and Petrus Borel--a forgotten half-mad poet--in
Baudelaire; though, for a brief period, in 1848, he became a Rousseau
reactionary, sported the workingman's blouse, cut his hair, shouldered a
musket, went to the barricades, wrote inflammatory editorials calling
the proletarian "Brother! " (oh, Baudelaire! ) and, as the Goncourts
recorded in their diary, had the head of a maniac. How seriously we may
take this swing of the pendulum is to be noted in a speech of the poet's
at the time of the Revolution: "Come," he said, "let us go shoot General
Aupick! " It was his stepfather that he thought of, not the eternal
principles of Liberty. This may be a false anecdote; many such were
foisted upon Baudelaire. For example, his exclamations at cafes or in
public places, such as: "Have you ever eaten a baby? I find it pleasing
to the palate! " or, "The night I killed my father! " Naturally, people
stared and Baudelaire was happy--he had startled a bourgeois. The
cannibalistic idea he may have borrowed from Swift's amusing pamphlet,
for this French poet knew English literature.
Gautier compares the poems to a certain tale of Hawthorne's in which
there is a garden of poisoned flowers.
But Hawthorne worked in his
laboratory of evil wearing mask and gloves; he never descended into the
mud and sin of the street. Baudelaire ruined his health, smudged his
soul, yet remained withal, as Anatole France says, "a divine poet. " How
childish, yet how touching is his resolution--he wrote in his diary of
prayer's dynamic force--when he was penniless, in debt, threatened with
imprisonment, sick, nauseated with sin: "To make every morning my prayer
to God, the reservoir of all force, and all justice; to my father, to
Mariette, and to Poe as intercessors. " (Evidently, Maurice Barres
encountered here his theory of Intercessors. ) Baudelaire loved the
memory of his father as much as Stendhal hated his own. He became
reconciled with his mother after the death of General Aupick, in 1857.
He felt in 1862 that his own intellectual eclipse was approaching, for
he wrote: "I have cultivated my hysteria with joy and terror. To-day
imbecility's wing fanned me as it passed. " The sense of the vertiginous
gulf was abiding with him; read his poem, "Pascal avait son gouffre. "
In preferring the Baudelaire translations of Poe to the original--and
they give the impression of being original works--Stedman agreed with
Asselineau that the French is more concise than the English. The prose
of Poe and Baudelaire is clear, sober, rhythmic; Baudelaire's is more
lapidary, finer in contour, richer coloured, more supple, though without
the "honey and tiger's blood" of Barbey d'Aurevilly. Baudelaire's soul
was patiently built up as a fabulous bird might build its nest--bits of
straw, the sobbing of women, clay, cascades of black stars, rags,
leaves, rotten wood, corroding dreams, a spray of roses, a sparkle of
pebble, a gleam of blue sky, arabesques of incense and verdigris,
despairing hearts and music and the abomination of desolation, for its
ground-tones. But this soul-nest is also a cemetery of the seven
sorrows. He loves the clouds . . .
