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The ministry of interior declared in 1857 that "Les Fleurs du Mal" constituted "an act of defiance in contempt of the laws which safeguard religion and morality" and both Baudelaire, the publisher and the printer was convicted on grounds of immorality, and all available copies of "Les Fleurs du Mal" was confiscated.
The courts verdict stated that whatever mitigating comments "Les Fleurs du Mal" might contain, nothing could dissipate the harmful effects of the images Mr. Baudelaire presents to the reader, and which, in the incriminated poems, inevitably lead to the arousal of the senses by crude and indecent realism.
"You know that I have only considered literature and the arts as pursuing a goal unrelated to morality, and that the beauty of conception and style alone are enough for me." ~ Baudelaire
The ban on the censored poems was not lifted until May 31, 1949!!
With "Les Fleurs du Mal" Baudelaire came to spearhead the Symbolist movement as a reaction against the prevailing naturalism in literature at the time. Baudelaire sublimated debauchery, spleen and hideousness to an art of studied elegance, but people often forget the wicked sense of cynical, black humour permeating many of his poems:
"I've just seen an adorable woman. She has the most beautiful eyes in the world - which she draws with a matchstick - the most provocative eyes - the brilliance of which is the clue solely to the khol on her eyelid - a voluptuous mouth - drawn with cochineal - and, on top of that, not a hair of her own - in short 'A GREAT ARTIST !` "
In Baudelaire's own words "A translation of poetry... may be an enticing dream, but can only ever be a dream" and therefore this dual-language book of "The Flowers of Evil/Les Fleurs du Mal" definetly is the one to get...
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Yo tambien se visiones en mi mente precita Un tropel de mirages sin descanso palpita Querubines-demonios,grande veldad...conmociones, Que harian estreecer los duros corazones Y en el mortal ignoto un angel canta No ha elevado un estigma,una vision que espanta? Alguna vez poeta, aunque el simple no creer
En el angel dormido una bestia loquea (patea)
Autor: Dr.Jesus Garcia Vazques
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I find thst this book is published no where else at this present time, than through the Teitan Press; Crowley has some poems in translation of Baudelaire in his Collected Works, but this present edition (Little Poems in Prose) is all in prose. Thus, it is contained no where else, as yet.
Some of the texts may be regarded as authentic poems in prose, while others are closer to exquisite miniature prose narratives. The setting is primarily urban, with the focus on crowds and the suffering lives they contain: a broken-down street acrobat (Le Vieux Satimbanque), a hapless street trader (Le Mauvais Vitrier), the poor staring at the wealthy in their opulent cafés (Le Vieux des pauvres), the deranged (Mademoisele Bistouri) and the derelict (Assommons les pauvres!), and, in the final text (Les Bon Chiens), the pariah dogs that scurry and scavenge through the streets of Brussels.
Not only is the subject matter of the prose poems essentially urban, but the form itself, "musical but without rhythm and rhyme, both supple and staccato," is said to derive from "frequent contact with enormous cities, from the junction of their innumerable connections."
In its deliberate fragmentation and its merging of the lyrical with the sardonic, Le Spleen de Paris may be regarded as one of the earliest and most successful examples of a specifically urban writing, the textual equivalent of the city scenes of the Impressionists, embodying in its poetics of sudden and disorienting encounter that ambiguous "heroism of modern life" that Baudelaire celebrated in his art criticism.
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The book unfolds with equal aplomb in the subjects' time and our own: time out of hand -- caused by war, personal trauma, and the persistent anxiety over fears of terrorism -- can be regained through an understanding of Flowers of Evil and Madame Bovary. You may not believe that nineteenth-century texts can hold the key, but they just may. Marder's book, written before 9/11 but with the event seemingly in mind at each turn, begins the work.
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Set largely against specifically autumnal landscapes, our wandering poet indulges in "the mysterious and aristocratic pleasure of watching" whenever he is not a direct participant in the events these visionary pieces describe. Solitary, 'fluent in outrage,' cranky, self-tormented, lovelorn, misanthropic, and pedagogical by turns, these pieces find the poet stalking bereaved widows, peering unseen through the candle-lit windows of neighbor's homes, asking philosophical questions of "enigmatical" strangers, shunning crowds, luxuriating in midnight solitude, greeting the twilight with a bow, reading the time of day in a cat's eyes, "suffering before Beauty" in all its forms, futilely but vocally castigating inflexible Dame Nature, advising the world on the varieties of glorious drunkenness, dreaming of tempting devils, beating the poor, pitying aged, poverty-stricken circus performers, rebelling against infinity, arguing with mistresses, and listening, eavesdropping, and relentlessly observing wherever he goes.
Not surprisingly, the poet's vision of urban Paris lies somewhere between the multiple canvases of Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec; garishly colored, slightly grotesque, heavily populated with heavy, heaving women and friable grande dames, Baudelaire's city is a fluid and respiring stage for life's pantomime, open to and allowing for all combinations and possibilities. By contrast, his autumnal countryside is a place of relative purity, where the poet wanders alone under piercing blue skies and roaming, shadow-casting clouds.
In one of the more hallucinatory episodes, the poet, "under a vast gray sky, on a vast and dusty plain" comes upon a short procession of men with "worn and serious faces," each of whom carries a very large, monstrous chimera on his back, the muscles, tendons and limbs of the beasts wrapped tightly around them. None the wiser after his inevitable questions, the poet observes that "under the depressing dome of the sky" the men moved past and beyond him, each "with the resigned look of men who are condemned to hope forever."
Paris Spleen is a wise, serious, and occasionally dour work. But if its only sometimes-tragic underpinnings and conclusions are embraced by the reader, then its vibrant, bawdy, colorful, and transcendent aspect will reveal itself shamelessly in turn. Baudelaire is so confident, unselfconscious, and plain-spoken that his perceptions are remarkably easy to visualize, his emotions as expressed easy to share and make one's own. It's a rare book that is as multi-prismed as this.
Baudelaire implies that if man could accept mortality, reasonably subdue his ego, and curb his more flagrant dreams, life would fall into the glittering, far from perfect, but certainly tolerable and potentially enjoyable miracle it really is. The poet seems to reach the same conclusion about life that Isak Dinsen does at the end of Out Of Africa: man must accept, without exclusion, every facet, aspect, element, and component of existence before existence-before life--will give anything back to man.
In no way a despairing book, Paris Spleen is a sheer pleasure to read, contemplate, discuss, laugh over, and digest. Readers will carry their copy in their back pocket until it falls into tatters, and force copies on friends, family, and strangers. Beautifully translated by Louise Varese. Highly recommended, especially to the non-creative who would like to see, however briefly, as a poet sees.
But this book really is great. Get the Everyman's Pocket Poet's version. It's got all (or almost all, I haven't counted) of Baudelaire's masterpiece "Les Fleur Du Mal," in a good translation by Richard Howard (though also check out Norman Shapiro's). And it has selections from Michael Hamburger's wonderful translation of Baudelaire's prose poems, "Le Spleen Du Paris." The best of these is "GET DRUNK," or "Enivrez-vous!" It begins:
One should always be drunk. That's all that matters; that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's horrible burden that breaks your shoulders and bows you down, you must get drunk without ceasing. ....
Baudelaire was full of dark energy like that. It disgusts and attracts. When it gets tiresome--and, like too much honey and too much Delacroix, reading about maggots eating lovers' flesh, will get tiresome--just put it down. When you pick it up you'll get some fresh insights. How fresh? As fresh as the in simile B. uses in "the Vampire": "bind[ing] me . . . as gambler to his winning streak." Nicely done. Plus the book is small so you can sneak it into work and easily goof off.