To
affiliate
him with Poe, De Quincey, Hoffman, James Thomson,
Coleridge, and the rest of the sombre choir does not explain him; he is,
perhaps, nearer Donne and Villon than any of the others--strains of the
metaphysical and sinister and supersubtle are to be discovered in him.
Coleridge, and the rest of the sombre choir does not explain him; he is,
perhaps, nearer Donne and Villon than any of the others--strains of the
metaphysical and sinister and supersubtle are to be discovered in him.
Baudelaire - Poems and Prose Poems
Rodin, too,
is a Baudelarian. If there could be such an anomaly as a native
wood-note wildly evil, it would be the lyric and astringent voice of
this poet. His sensibility was both catholic and morbid, though he could
be frigid in the face of the most disconcerting misfortunes. He was a
man for whom the invisible word existed; if Gautier was pagan,
Baudelaire was a strayed spirit from mediaeval days. The spirit rules,
and, as Paul Bourget said, "he saw God. " A Manichean in his worship of
evil, he nevertheless abased his soul: "Oh! Lord God! Give me the force
and courage to contemplate my heart and my body without disgust," he
prays: but as some one remarked to Rochefoucauld, "Where you end,
Christianity begins. "
Baudelaire built his ivory tower on the borders of a poetic Maremma,
which every miasma of the spirit pervaded, every marsh-light and
glow-worm inhabited. Like Wagner, Baudelaire painted in his sultry music
the profundities of abysms, the vastness of space. He painted, too, the
great nocturnal silences of the soul.
Pacem summum tenent! He never reached peace on the heights. Let us
admit that souls of his kind are encased in sick frames; their steel is
too shrewd for the scabbard; yet the enigma for us is none the less
unfathomable. Existence for such natures is a sort of muffled delirium.
To affiliate him with Poe, De Quincey, Hoffman, James Thomson,
Coleridge, and the rest of the sombre choir does not explain him; he is,
perhaps, nearer Donne and Villon than any of the others--strains of the
metaphysical and sinister and supersubtle are to be discovered in him.
The disharmony of brain and body, the spiritual bilocation, are only too
easy to diagnose; but the remedy? Hypocrite lecteur--mon semblable--mon
frere! When the subtlety, force, grandeur, of his poetic production be
considered, together with its disquieting, nervous, vibrating qualities,
it is not surprising that Victor Hugo wrote to the poet: "You invest the
heaven of art with we know not what deadly rays; you create a new
shudder. " Hugo might have said that he turned Art into an Inferno.
Baudelaire is the evil archangel of poetry. In his heaven of fire, glass
and ebony he is the blazing Lucifer. "A glorious devil, large in heart
and brain, that did love beauty only. . . " once sang Tennyson, though not
of the Frenchman.
II
As long ago as 1869, and in our "barbarous gas-lit country," as
Baudelaire named the land of Poe, an unsigned review appeared in which
this poet was described as "unique and as interesting as Hamlet. He is
that rare and unknown being, a genuine poet--a poet in the midst of
things that have disordered his spirit--a poet excessively developed in
his taste for and by beauty . . . very responsive to the ideal, very
greedy of sensation.
is a Baudelarian. If there could be such an anomaly as a native
wood-note wildly evil, it would be the lyric and astringent voice of
this poet. His sensibility was both catholic and morbid, though he could
be frigid in the face of the most disconcerting misfortunes. He was a
man for whom the invisible word existed; if Gautier was pagan,
Baudelaire was a strayed spirit from mediaeval days. The spirit rules,
and, as Paul Bourget said, "he saw God. " A Manichean in his worship of
evil, he nevertheless abased his soul: "Oh! Lord God! Give me the force
and courage to contemplate my heart and my body without disgust," he
prays: but as some one remarked to Rochefoucauld, "Where you end,
Christianity begins. "
Baudelaire built his ivory tower on the borders of a poetic Maremma,
which every miasma of the spirit pervaded, every marsh-light and
glow-worm inhabited. Like Wagner, Baudelaire painted in his sultry music
the profundities of abysms, the vastness of space. He painted, too, the
great nocturnal silences of the soul.
Pacem summum tenent! He never reached peace on the heights. Let us
admit that souls of his kind are encased in sick frames; their steel is
too shrewd for the scabbard; yet the enigma for us is none the less
unfathomable. Existence for such natures is a sort of muffled delirium.
To affiliate him with Poe, De Quincey, Hoffman, James Thomson,
Coleridge, and the rest of the sombre choir does not explain him; he is,
perhaps, nearer Donne and Villon than any of the others--strains of the
metaphysical and sinister and supersubtle are to be discovered in him.
The disharmony of brain and body, the spiritual bilocation, are only too
easy to diagnose; but the remedy? Hypocrite lecteur--mon semblable--mon
frere! When the subtlety, force, grandeur, of his poetic production be
considered, together with its disquieting, nervous, vibrating qualities,
it is not surprising that Victor Hugo wrote to the poet: "You invest the
heaven of art with we know not what deadly rays; you create a new
shudder. " Hugo might have said that he turned Art into an Inferno.
Baudelaire is the evil archangel of poetry. In his heaven of fire, glass
and ebony he is the blazing Lucifer. "A glorious devil, large in heart
and brain, that did love beauty only. . . " once sang Tennyson, though not
of the Frenchman.
II
As long ago as 1869, and in our "barbarous gas-lit country," as
Baudelaire named the land of Poe, an unsigned review appeared in which
this poet was described as "unique and as interesting as Hamlet. He is
that rare and unknown being, a genuine poet--a poet in the midst of
things that have disordered his spirit--a poet excessively developed in
his taste for and by beauty . . . very responsive to the ideal, very
greedy of sensation.
