But this soul-nest is also a
cemetery
of the seven
sorrows.
sorrows.
Baudelaire - Poems and Prose Poems
" 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 . . . les nuages . . . la bas. . . . It was la bas
with him even in the tortures of his wretched love-life. Corruption and
death were ever floating in his consciousness. He was like Flaubert, who
saw everywhere the hidden skeleton. Felicien Hops has best interpreted
Baudelaire; the etcher and poet were closely knit spirits. Rodin, too,
is a Baudelarian.
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 . . . les nuages . . . la bas. . . . It was la bas
with him even in the tortures of his wretched love-life. Corruption and
death were ever floating in his consciousness. He was like Flaubert, who
saw everywhere the hidden skeleton. Felicien Hops has best interpreted
Baudelaire; the etcher and poet were closely knit spirits. Rodin, too,
is a Baudelarian.
