Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867)

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

A lovely little volume of essays that I'd heard about but never read. I'm not a French speaker, so can't attest to the quality of the translation, but I do know what appeals to me about Baudelaire's writing, and this one brings it beautifully. Descriptions of intoxication and its aftereffects are typically lush and minutely detailed. There is a monitory quality to some of the content, as though Baudelaire, while following "le dérèglement de tous les sens" to its fullest extent, tries to show more legitimize his personal explorations by treating them journalistically in a 19th century version of "kids, don't try this at home." That these essays were written for money is a factor in this presentation, and probably relates to his lifelong production style of inspiration versus hard work. It's hard to balance the two when your research methods conflict with your output method. Even the flyleaf of this edition makes reference to "the phoney exotica of excess" (the original French title: Les paradis artificiels) as if to justify intoxication in pursuit of enlightenment. But that's really what this book is about, and it doesn't lessen the art for its association with commerce.

Can;t say enough about the design and presentation of this book. There are a number of other titles in Hesperus's series, and this one definitely makes me want to see others. show less

Hace un tiempo tuve una discusión de borrachos donde quien sea el que tenía en frente dijo "No me gusta. No sé. Baudelaire está lleno de lugares comunes".

"No, gil de caucho. Los lugares comunes existen porque hace un siglo y medio que millones de personas que no conocen la palabra "originalidad" tratan de escribir como Baudellaire."

"Las Flores del Mal", según algunos la obra maestra de Charles Baudellaire, es una de las primeras (o al menos más notorias) quejas contra la modernidad que show more aparecieron. Mientras se inventaba la máquina de escribir (apenas un par de años después del fusil Remington, porque primero las balas, las letras que esperen su turno), se descubrían nuevas galaxias, se reducían las jornadas laborales británicas a 10 horas y Sudamérica acomodaba sus fronteras a codazos, Charles recorría las calles con el pelo verde, resaltando, entre otras cosas, el erotismo lésbico, la belleza de la melancolía y la presencia de viejitas, lisiados, prostitutas y alcohólicos.

"Este era medio romántico, ¿no?", me preguntó un amigo de mi viejo el otro día mientras señalaba el libro en mi mesita de luz.

Y... sí. Te parece. show less