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#charles baudelaire
megairea · 2 hours ago
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Life swarms with innocent monsters.
Charles Baudelaire, from Mademoiselle Bistoury; Le Spleen de Paris (tr. by Louise Varese), 1869
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megairea · 10 hours ago
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sinister flowers like the censers of a strange religion, perfumes that trouble the will,
Charles Baudelaire, from The Moon’s Favors; Le Spleen de Paris (tr. by Louise Varese), 1869
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megairea · a day ago
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But she makes one think rather of the moon, which has surely marked her with its portentous influence; not the white moon of idylls which resembles a frigid bride, but the sinister and intoxicating moon that hangs deep in a stormy night, hurtled by the driven clouds; not the discreet and peaceful moon that visits pure men while they sleep, but the moon torn from the sky, the conquered and indignant moon that the Thessalian Witches cruelly compel to dance on the frightened grass!
Charles Baudelaire, from The Desire to Paint; Le Spleen de Paris (tr. by Louise Varese), 1869
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megairea · a day ago
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I have compared her to a black sun, if one can imagine a black star pouring out light and happiness.
Charles Baudelaire, from The Desire to Paint; Le Spleen de Paris (tr. by Louise Varese), 1869
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elizabethanism · a day ago
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". . . a pale phantom we call Reason, who illumines the aridity of his path with a pale lantern, and who, to slake the recurrent thirst of passion that seizes him from time to time, pours him the poison of ennui."
― Baudelaire, Fanfarlo (tr. Edward K. Kaplan)
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megairea · 2 days ago
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[...] the woman who appeared to me so rarely and who so quickly fled, like a beautiful regretted thing the voyager leaves behind as he is carried away into the night.
Charles Baudelaire, from The Desire to Paint; Le Spleen de Paris (tr. by Louise Varese), 1869
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megairea · 2 days ago
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His beautiful languid eyes, shadowy and vague in color, resembled violets that are still heavy with the tears of storm,
Charles Baudelaire, from Temptations; Le Spleen de Paris (tr. by Louise Varese), 1869
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a-book-is-a-garden · 2 days ago
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One should always be drunk. That's all that matters... But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk.
Charles Baudelaire
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Charles Baudelaire – La moneda falsa
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Pequeños poemas en prosa
Cuando nos alejábamos del estanco, mi amigo hizo una minuciosa distribución de sus monedas; en el bolsillo izquierdo del chaleco introdujo varias pequeñas monedas de oro; en el derecho las pequeñas monedas de plata; en el bolsillo del pantalón un puñado de monedas de cobre y, finalmente, en el de la derecha una moneda de plata de dos francos que había examinado atentamente.
—¡Singular y minuciosa distribución! —dije para mis adentros.
Encontramos a un pobre que nos tendió su gorra temblando. No conozco nada más inquietante que la elocuencia muda de esos ojos suplicantes que contienen, para el hombre sensible que sabe leer en ellos, a la vez tanta humildad y tantos reproches. Se encuentra algo similar a esta profundidad de sentimientos en los ojos lacrimosos de los perros a los que se azota.
La limosna de mi amigo fue mucho más considerable que la mía, y le dije:
—Tiene razón; después del placer de ser sorprendido, no hay otro mayor que el de causar una sorpresa.
—Era una moneda falsa —me contestó tranquilamente, como para justificarse de su prodigalidad.
Pero en mi miserable cerebro, siempre ocupado en buscarle tres pies al gato (¡Qué fatigosa facultad me ha regalado la naturaleza!) entró instantáneamente la idea de que semejante conducta por parte de mi amigo sólo era excusable si se trataba de crear un acontecimiento en la vida de aquel pobre diablo, tal vez incluso de conocer las consecuencias diversas, funestas o de otro tipo que puede engendrar una moneda falsa en manos de un mendigo. ¿No podría multiplicarse en monedas auténticas? ¿No podría también conducirlo a la cárcel? Un tabernero, un panadero, por ejemplo, tal vez hicieran que lo detuvieran como falsificador de monedas o como propagador de las mismas. Igualmente, la falsa moneda podría ser para un pobre especulador el germen de una riqueza de unos cuantos días. Y así mi fantasía seguía su curso, prestándole alas al espíritu de mi amigo y extrayendo todas las deducciones posibles de todas las hipótesis posibles. Pero éste interrumpió bruscamente mi ensoñación retomando mis propias palabras:
—Sí, tiene razón; no hay placer más grato que el de sorprender a un hombre dándole más de lo que espera.
Lo miré fijamente y quedé espantado al ver que sus ojos brillaban con un incontestable candor. Entonces vi claramente que había querido hacer a la vez un acto de caridad y un buen negocio; ganar cuarenta sous y el corazón de Dios; ganarse el paraíso por poco dinero; finalmente recibir gratis el certificado de hombre caritativo. Le habría perdonado el deseo del goce criminal del que hace un instante le creí capaz; habría encontrado curioso, singular, que se divirtiera comprometiendo a los pobres; pero no le perdonaré jamás la bodomía de su cálculo. Nunca hay excusa para ser perverso, pero puede haber mérito en saber que uno lo es; el más irreparable de los vicios es hacer el mal por imbecilidad.
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megairea · 3 days ago
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I seem to be eating memories.
Charles Baudelaire, from A Hemisphere in Your Hair; Le Spleen de Paris (tr. by Louise Varese), 1869
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megairea · 3 days ago
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a lovely autumn sky, one of those skies out of which such a multitude of memories and regrets rain down,
Charles Baudelaire, from Widows; Le Spleen de Paris (tr. by Louise Varese), 1869
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elizabethanism · 3 days ago
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He who looks in through an open window never sees so many things as he who looks at a shut window.
Windows, Charles Baudelaire, translated by Arthur Symons.
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justthishumanheart · 3 days ago
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My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path a foul carcass On a gravel strewn bed,
Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases.
The sun shone down upon that putrescence, As if to roast it to a turn, And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature The elements she had combined;
And the sky was watching that superb cadaver Blossom like a flower. So frightful was the stench that you believed You'd faint away upon the grass.
The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly, From which came forth black battalions Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid All along those living tatters.
All this was descending and rising like a wave, Or poured out with a crackling sound; One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath, Lived by multiplication.
And this world gave forth singular music, Like running water or the wind, Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion Shake in their winnowing baskets.
The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream, A sketch that slowly falls Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist Completes from memory alone.
Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog Watched us with angry eye, Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass The morsel he had left.
— And yet you will be like this corruption, Like this horrible infection, Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being, You, my angel and my passion!
Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces, After the last sacraments, When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers, To molder among the bones of the dead.
Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will Devour you with kisses, That I have kept the form and the divine essence Of my decomposed love!
—Charles Baudelaire, A Carcass
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megairea · 4 days ago
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[…] and the gold and silver stars sprinkled over it, represent the fires of fancy that shine brightly only in the deep mourning of the night.
Charles Baudelaire, from Evening Twilight; Le Spleen de Paris (tr. by Louise Varese), 1869
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blackswaneuroparedux · 5 days ago
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Mainte fleur épanche à regret Son parfum doux comme un secret Dans les solitudes profondes.
- Charles Baudelaire
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megairea · 5 days ago
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What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all its poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes.
Charles Baudelaire, from Crowds; Le Spleen de Paris (tr. by Louise Varese), 1869
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montair · 5 days ago
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A handsome male head… will bear something ardent and sad, some spiritual need, some vaguely receding ambition, the thought of a rumbling, unused power, sometimes the thought of a vengeful lack of feeling (for the ideal type of the dandy must not be neglected here), sometimes also… mystery, and finally… misfortune. I do not claim that Joy cannot be associated with Beauty, but I do say that Joy is one of its most vulgar ornaments, while Melancholy is, as it were, its illustrious companion, to such a degree that I can scarcely conceive (is my brain an enchanted mirror?) a type of beauty in which is no Misfortune. Following—others might say: obsessed by—these ideas, you can see that it would be difficult for me not to conclude that the most perfect type of manly Beauty is Satan,—as pictured by Milton [in Paradise Lost].
Charles Baudelaire, Rockets, 1867
(1997)
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