He
had to dig down deep into the pit of his personality to reach the
central core of his music.
had to dig down deep into the pit of his personality to reach the
central core of his music.
Baudelaire - Poems and Prose Poems
Stedman was
not the first to make this mistake. In Bayard Taylor's The Echo Club we
find on page 24 this criticism: "There was a congenital twist about Poe
. . . Baudelaire and Swinburne after him have been trying to surpass him
by increasing the dose; but his muse is the natural Pythia inheriting
her convulsions, while they eat all sorts of insane roots to produce
theirs. " This must have been written about 1872, and after reading it
one would fancy that Poe and Baudelaire were rhapsodic wrigglers on the
poetic tripod, whereas their poetry is often reserved, even glacial.
Baudelaire, like Poe, sometimes "built his nests with the birds of
Night," and that was enough to condemn the work of both men by critics
of the didactic school.
Once, when Baudelaire heard that an American man of letters(? ) was in
Paris, he secured an introduction and called on him. Eagerly inquiring
after Poe, he learned that he was not considered a genteel person in
America, Baudelaire withdrew, muttering maledictions. Enthusiastic poet!
Charming literary person! Yet the American, whoever he was, represented
public opinion at the time. To-day criticisms of Poe are vitiated by the
desire to make him an angel. It is to be doubted whether without his
barren environment and hard fortunes we should have had Poe at all.
He
had to dig down deep into the pit of his personality to reach the
central core of his music. But every ardent young soul entering
"literature" begins by a vindication of Poe's character. Poe was a man,
and he is now a classic. He was a half-charlatan as was Baudelaire. In
both the sublime and the sickly were never far asunder. The pair loved
to mystify, to play pranks on their contemporaries. Both were implacable
pessimists. Both were educated in affluence, and both had to face
unprepared the hardships of life. The hastiest comparison of their
poetic work will show that their only common ideal was the worship of an
exotic beauty. Their artistic methods of expression were totally
dissimilar. Baudelaire, like Poe, had a harp-like temperament which
vibrated in the presence of strange subjects. Above all, he was obsessed
by sex. Women, as angel of destruction, is the keynote of his poems. Poe
was almost sexless. His aerial creatures never footed the dusty highways
of the world. His lovely lines, "Helen, thy beauty is to me," could
never have been written by Baudelaire; while Poe would never have
pardoned the "fulgurant" grandeur, the Beethoven-like harmonies, the
Dantesque horrors of that "deep wide music of lost souls" in "Femmes
Damnees":
"Descendes, descendes, lamentable victimes.
not the first to make this mistake. In Bayard Taylor's The Echo Club we
find on page 24 this criticism: "There was a congenital twist about Poe
. . . Baudelaire and Swinburne after him have been trying to surpass him
by increasing the dose; but his muse is the natural Pythia inheriting
her convulsions, while they eat all sorts of insane roots to produce
theirs. " This must have been written about 1872, and after reading it
one would fancy that Poe and Baudelaire were rhapsodic wrigglers on the
poetic tripod, whereas their poetry is often reserved, even glacial.
Baudelaire, like Poe, sometimes "built his nests with the birds of
Night," and that was enough to condemn the work of both men by critics
of the didactic school.
Once, when Baudelaire heard that an American man of letters(? ) was in
Paris, he secured an introduction and called on him. Eagerly inquiring
after Poe, he learned that he was not considered a genteel person in
America, Baudelaire withdrew, muttering maledictions. Enthusiastic poet!
Charming literary person! Yet the American, whoever he was, represented
public opinion at the time. To-day criticisms of Poe are vitiated by the
desire to make him an angel. It is to be doubted whether without his
barren environment and hard fortunes we should have had Poe at all.
He
had to dig down deep into the pit of his personality to reach the
central core of his music. But every ardent young soul entering
"literature" begins by a vindication of Poe's character. Poe was a man,
and he is now a classic. He was a half-charlatan as was Baudelaire. In
both the sublime and the sickly were never far asunder. The pair loved
to mystify, to play pranks on their contemporaries. Both were implacable
pessimists. Both were educated in affluence, and both had to face
unprepared the hardships of life. The hastiest comparison of their
poetic work will show that their only common ideal was the worship of an
exotic beauty. Their artistic methods of expression were totally
dissimilar. Baudelaire, like Poe, had a harp-like temperament which
vibrated in the presence of strange subjects. Above all, he was obsessed
by sex. Women, as angel of destruction, is the keynote of his poems. Poe
was almost sexless. His aerial creatures never footed the dusty highways
of the world. His lovely lines, "Helen, thy beauty is to me," could
never have been written by Baudelaire; while Poe would never have
pardoned the "fulgurant" grandeur, the Beethoven-like harmonies, the
Dantesque horrors of that "deep wide music of lost souls" in "Femmes
Damnees":
"Descendes, descendes, lamentable victimes.
