Les Fleurs du Mal -To the Reader

drawing / collage by marguerita

apropos: missing a loved one and connecting with the one

affected

La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine, Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps, Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords, Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine. Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches; Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux, Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux, Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches. Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté, Et le riche métal de notre volonté Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste. C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent! Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas; Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas, sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent. Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin, Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange. Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes, Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons, Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes. Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie, N'ont pas encor brondé de leurs plaisants dessins Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins, C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie. Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices, Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents, Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants, Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices, Il en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde! Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris, Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde; C'est l'Ennui!—l'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire, Il rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka. Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat, —Hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère! Folly, depravity, greed, mortal sin Invade our souls and rack our flesh; we feed Our gentle guilt, gracious regrets, that breed Like vermin glutting on foul beggars' skin. Our sins are stubborn; our repentance, faint. We take a handsome price for our confession, Happy once more to wallow in transgression, Thinking vile tears will cleanse us of all taint. On evil's cushion poised, His Majesty, Satan Thrice-Great, lulls our charmed soul, until He turns to vapor what was once our will: Rich ore, transmuted by his alchemy. He holds the strings that move us, limb by limb! We yield, enthralled, to things repugnant, base; Each day, towards Hell, with slow, unhurried pace, We sink, uncowed, through shadows, stinking, grim. Like some lewd rake with his old worn-out whore, Nibbling her suffering teats, we seize our sly delight, that, like an orange—withered, dry— We squeeze and press for juice that is no more. Our brains teem with a race of Fiends, who frolic thick as a million gut-worms; with each breath, Our lungs drink deep, suck down a stream of Death— Dim-lit—to low-moaned whimpers melancholic. If poison, fire, blade, rape do not succeed In sewing on that dull embroidery Of our pathetic lives their artistry, It's that our soul, alas, shrinks from the deed. And yet, among the beasts and creatures all— Panther, snake, scorpion, jackal, ape, hound, hawk— Monsters that crawl, and shriek, and grunt, and squawk, In our vice-filled menagerie's caterwaul, One worse is there, fit to heap scorn upon— More ugly, rank! Though noiseless, calm and still, yet would he turn the earth to scraps and swill, swallow it whole in one great, gaping yawn: Ennui! That monster frail!—With eye wherein A chance tear gleams, he dreams of gibbets, while Smoking his hookah, with a dainty smile. . . —You know him, reader,—hypocrite,—my twin! Translated by Norman R. Shapiro with engravings by David Schorr Published by the University of Chicago Press Copyright notice Copyright notice: Excerpted from Selected Poems from Les Fleurs du mal by Charles Baudelaire, translated by Norman R. Shapiro, published by the University of Chicago Press. © 1998 by the University of Chicago. All rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of U.S. copyright law, and it may be archived and redistributed in electronic form, provided that this entire notice, including copyright information, is carried and provided that the University of Chicago Press is notified and no fee is charged for access. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the consent of both the author and the University of Chicago Press.