Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867)

I don't speak French and can't read more than a few words here and there, but as I was reading Howard's non-rhyming translation, I felt for the first time I was seeing into the mind of Baudelaire. Surely it couldn't have been the translator's mind. These poems are full of disturbing images and very dark observations, and they aren't completely clear on a first or even second reading, but the experience of reading them is still riveting, and unlike some poetry, it makes you want to re-read show more them. And read criticism to better understand them. Perhaps like Confucius's Analects, you need to read more than one translation to really gain a better understanding. I may try that. In the meantime, I highly recommend this edition. I should point out, for those who care, that while it has both the French and English versions of the poems, these are in separate sections of the book--not on facing pages. So if you know some French and want to compare side-by-side, you're out of luck and may want to purchase another edition. show less

This wasn't the pit of debauchery I'd half expected from its reputation. Which isn't to say there aren't some shocking images ("The Carcass" comes to mind), but times have moved on.

It's an interesting reflection that poems explicitly about necrophilia weren't banned upon publication, but those about, or even hinting at, lesbianism were. A man's pleasures were seemingly more acceptable, however depraved.

It's not all about sex though (ok, a lot of it is!), and Baudelaire also tackles art and show more artists, love and romance, depression and, well, more depression, the inequalities of society, and the lives of the poor and wretched inhabitants of Paris's deprived urban landscapes away from the bright lights of the cafes and salons of the bourgeoisie.

A slightly unsettling 5/5 🌟 show less

Baudelaire was the heir of the darkest and melancholiest form of Romanticism, having dedicated here his poetry to Théophile Gautier, the red gilet of 'Hernani', while not forgetting Victor Hugo, recipient of a few poems and who had described 'The Flowers of Evil' as being a 'new shiver'. And what a shiver indeed! Here's a shiver announcing, also, in many ways, Symbolism yet to come... This book is a masterpiece. The matrix of modern poetry. For there is a before and an after Baudelaire; he show more who was an heir, but also a precursor; the Father, the Son, and the Unholy Spirit of Art and in front of whom one can only kneel -born too late, too early, and yet at the right time. What else to say?

His goal was 'to extract beauty out of Evil'. Man isn't naturally good. He has shadows, lurking within. Mysteries. An abyss, terrifying yet lodged right at the core of his consciousness. This abyss, nightmarish pit that most deny, Baudelaire reflects it here. He grabs the readers by the hair, and pull, pull mercilessly and despite protests so as to force us to look into it, even, throw us in. Fall. Plunge. Sink. And, if you can't cope, perish. His is a putrid poetry reeking of Hell.

We know, because too new, too daring, to audacious, only one publisher will have the b@lls to publish it, and the rest is history. Lauded by some, damned by others, the battle will end up in front of the tribunals where, accused of indecency, the book will be amputated of 6 of its poems (out of 100 or so). Why these poems in particular, I still fail to see the point. Suffice to say that, in France, the judgement and court decision will be reviewed only in... 1946! It took time to get Baudelaire.

But then, what else? Here's a jewel of a book. Ambitious. Near-perfect. The putrid guts of French poetry, and the insane grandparent of Modernism. Again: a masterpiece. show less