Baudelaire Flowers Of Evil Quotes

My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.

Fleurs du mal,” Eve heard herself saying, and shivered. “What?” “Baudelaire. We are not flowers to be plucked and shielded, Captain. We are flowers who flourish in evil.

I am the wound and the blade, the torturer and the flayed.

I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood; My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans; I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.

Do you come from Heaven or rise from the abyss, Beauty?

Her voice makes perfume when she speaks, Her breath is music faint and low.

It's time, Old Captain, lift anchor, sink! The land rots; we shall sail into the night; if now the sky and sea are black as ink our hearts, as you must know, are filled with light. Only when we drink poison are we well — we want, this fire so burns our brain tissue, to drown in the abyss — heaven or hell, who cares? Through the unknown, we'll find the new. ("Le Voyage")

The old Paris is no more (the form of a city changes faster, alas! than a mortal's heart).

Fruit free of any bruises, not yet broken open, / With flesh so firm and smooth, it cried out to be eaten!

But how you'd please me, night! without those stars Whose light speaks in a language I have known! Since I seek for the black, the blank, the bare!

Free man, you will always cherish the sea! The sea is your mirror; you contemplate your soul In the infinite unrolling of its billows; Your mind is an abyss that is no less bitter.

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.

Your eyes, brilliant as shop windows Or as blazing lamp-stands at public festivals, Insolently use a borrowed power Without ever knowing the law of their beauty.   Blind,

I join a heart of snow to the whiteness of swans; I hate movement for it displaces lines, And never do I weep and never do I laugh.

He whose thoughts, like skylarks, Toward the morning sky take flight —Who hovers over life and understands with ease The language of flowers and silent things!

the Devil's hand directs our every move the things we loathed become the things we love; day by day we drop through stinking shades quite undeterred on our descent to Hell.

Thanks be to God, Who gives us suffering as sacred remedy for all our sins, that best and purest essence which prepares the strong in spirit for divine delights!

Thy laughter soaked in tears which no one sees.

With heart at rest I climbed the citadel's Steep height, and saw the city as from a tower, Hospital, brothel, prison, and such hells, Where evil comes up softly like a flower. Thou knowest, O Satan, patron of my pain, Not for vain tears I went up at that hour; But like an old sad faithful lecher, fain To drink delight of that enormous trull Whose hellish beauty makes me young again. Whether thou sleep, with heavy vapors full, Sodden with day, or, new appareled, stand In gold-laced veils of evening beautiful, I love thee, infamous city! Harlots and Hunted have pleasures of their own to give, The vulgar herd can never understand.

Race of Cain, ascend to heaven, And cast God down upon the earth!

And the least stupid, fleeing the herd where fate has penned them fast, take refuge in the wards of opium, so much for what is news around the world.

Nature is a temple in which living pillars Sometimes give voice to confused words;

The panting lover bending o'er his fair one Looks like a dying man caressing his own tomb,

Angel full of gaiety, do you know anguish?   Angel

I love recalling those antique, nude times

O muse of mine,

You sow haphazard fortune and despair, / ruling all things, responsible for none. (from 'Hymn to Beauty')

The Sky; that black lid of a mighty pot, Where, vast and minute, human Races boil.

There lay but the sweetness that charms, and the joy that destroys.

O pallid seasons, mistress of our climes

—But why is she weeping? She, the perfect beauty, Who could put at her feet the conquered human race, What secret malady gnaws at those sturdy flanks? —She is weeping, fool, because she has lived! And because she lives! But what she deplores Most, what makes her shudder down to her knees, Is that tomorrow, alas! she will still have to live! Tomorrow, after tomorrow, always!—like us!

The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman; When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers, His giant wings prevent him from walking.

I love to think of those naked epochs Whose statues Phoebus liked to tinge with gold. At that time men and women, lithe and strong, Tasted the thrill of love free from care and prudery, And with the amorous sun caressing their loins They gloried in the health of their noble bodies.

Some literary recommendations: James Salter’s erotic masterpiece, A Sport and a Pastime; Anais Nin’s collections of short stories Delta of Venus and Little Birds; the erotic novels Emanuelle by Emanuelle Arsan and Story of O by Pauline Réage; Harold Brodkey’s sexual saga “Innocence”—perhaps the greatest depiction of a session of cunnilingus ever penned; novels by Jerzy Kosinski such as Passion Play and Cockpit; Henry Miller’s Under the Roofs of Paris and Quiet Days in Clichy; My Secret Life by Anonymous and The Pure and the Impure by Colette; Nancy Friday’s anthology of fantasies, Secret Garden (filled with the correspondence of real people’s fantasies); stories from The Mammoth Book of Erotica or one of the many erotic anthologies edited by Susie Bright. For those with a taste for poetry, try Les Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Evil) by Charles Baudelaire or Flesh Unlimited by Guillaume Apollinaire. And for those who like comic books (kinky ones, that is), try the extra-hot works of writer/illustrator Eric Stanton, who specializes in female-domination fantasies.

THE CAT Come, superb cat, to my amorous heart; Hold back the talons of your paws, Let me gaze into your beautiful eyes Of metal and agate. When my fingers leisurely caress you, Your head and your elastic back, And when my hand tingles with the pleasure Of feeling your electric body, In spirit I see my woman. Her gaze Like your own, amiable beast, Profound and cold, cuts and cleaves like a dart, And, from her head down to her feet, A subtle air, a dangerous perfume Floats about her dusky body.

Think of my kind old nurse you once were jealous of . . .

She is unaware of Hell and Purgatory And when the time comes for her to enter The black Night, she will look into the face of Death As a new-born child,—without hatred or remorse.

My cat seeking a bed on the tiled floor Shakes his thin, mangy body ceaselessly; The soul of an old poet wanders in the rain-pipe With the sad voice of a shivering ghost.

I'm the vampire of my own heart— One of those utter derelicts Condemned to eternal laughter, But who can no longer smile!

Patent symbols, perfect picture Of an irremediable fate Which makes one think that the Devil Always does well whatever he does!

A hellish, ironic beacon, Torch of satanical blessings, Sole glory and only solace —The consciousness of doing evil.

In all climes, under every sun, Death admires you At your antics, ridiculous Humanity, And frequently, like you, scenting herself with myrrh, Mingles her irony with your insanity!

Impassive clock! Terrifying, sinister god, Whose finger threatens us and says: "Remember!

They have the divine eyes of little girls Who are amazed and laugh at everything that gleams.

In love with pleasure to the point of cruelty, See! I drag along also! but, more dazed than they, I say: "What do they seek in Heaven, all those blind?

The Metamorphoses of the Vampire

as I walked through the modern Carrousel.° The old Paris is gone. A town’s complexion, like human hearts, never stays put at all.

Bella soy, ¡oh, mortales!, como un sueño de piedra, y mi seno, que a todos por turno a torturado, fue hecho para inspirar al poeta un amor tal como mi materia, inmortal y callado

أيها الملاك - أيتها المرأة الفاتنة أيتها الجنية المخملية العينين أيها الإيقاع - والعطر والبريق يا مليكتي الوحيدة ليت يديك تجعلان العالم أقل بشاعة والثواني أقل ثقلاً

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté.

Moja dusza cmentarzem, gdzie, zakonnik lichy, Całą wieczność już błądzę śród samotnej pychy.

My soul's a tomb which, wicked cenobite, I wander in for all eternity; Nothing embellishes these odious walls.

I have more memories than if I had lived a thousand years.

Rubens,°

38 A Phantom

A Conversation

Dear, you evoke white-veiled and lukewarm hours

The Alchemy of Grief

an Idea,

Seek my heart no longer; the beasts have eaten it.

The mental Heaven's inaccessible blue, For wearied mortals that still dream and mourn, Expands and sinks; towards the chasm drawn.

My heart is a palace pillaged by the herd; They kill and take each other by the throat!

Her tint, pale and warm—this bewitching bride, Displays a nobly nurtured mien, Courageous and grand like a huntsman, her stride; A tranquil smile and eyes serene.

The man allured by a passing face, For ever bears the chastisement Of having wished to change his place.

Behold how they beckon, those years, long expired, From Heaven, in faded apparel attired,

Poor sisters—yea, I love you as I pity you, For your unsatiated thirsts and anguished sighs, And for the vials of love within your hearts so true.

A langorous island, where Nature abounds With exotic trees and luscious fruit; And with men whose bodies are slim and astute, And with women whose frankness delights and astounds.

My kisses are as light as fairy midges That on calm evenings skim the crystal lake Those of your man would plough such ruts and ridges As lumbering carts or tearing coulters make

Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent / Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité, / Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté, / Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent.

Cats All ardent lovers and all sages prize, —As ripening years incline upon their brows— The mild and mighty cats—pride of the house— That like unto them are indolent, stern and wise.

Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique, Défilent lentement dans mon âme ; l'Espoir, Vaincu, pleure, et l'Angoisse atroce, despotique, Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.

Whose thoughts, like larks, rise on the freshening breeze, Who fans the morning with his tameless wings, Skims over life, and understands with ease The speech of flowers and other voiceless things.

O Beauty! dost thou generate from Heaven or from Hell? Within thy glance, so diabolic and divine, Confusedly both wickedness and goodness dwell, And hence one might compare thee unto sparkling wine.

I prefer to African wines, to opium, to burgundy, The elixir of your mouth where love parades itself; When my desires leave in caravan for you, Your eyes are the reservoir where my cares drink. — Charles Baudelaire, from “Sed Non Satiata,” Fleurs du mal / Flowers of Evil. Translated by Geoffrey Wagner. (David R. Godine; First edition, second printing edition October 1, 1985) Originally published 1857.

What matter, if thou comest from the Heavens or Hell, O Beauty, frightful ghoul, ingenuous and obscure! So long thine eyes, thy smile, to me the way can tell Towards that Infinite I love, but never saw. From God or Satan? Angel, Mermaid, Proserpine? What matter if thou makest – blithe, voluptuous sprite – With rhythms, perfumes, visions – O mine only queen! – The universe less hideous and the hours less trite.

Thanks to the priceless stars That flicker one by one My burnt-out eyes can see Dim memories of the sun. Hopelessly I have sought To touch the end of all; Beneath some melting heat I feel my pinions fall.

Spleen Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux, Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux, Qui, de ses précepteurs méprisant les courbettes, S'ennuie avec ses chiens comme avec d'autres bêtes. Rien ne peut l'égayer, ni gibier, ni faucon, Ni son peuple mourant en face du balcon. Du bouffon favori la grotesque ballade Ne distrait plus le front de ce cruel malade; Son lit fleurdelisé se transforme en tombeau, Et les dames d'atour, pour qui tout prince est beau, Ne savent plus trouver d'impudique toilette Pour tirer un souris de ce jeune squelette. Le savant qui lui fait de l'or n'a jamais pu De son être extirper l'élément corrompu, Et dans ces bains de sang qui des Romains nous viennent, Et dont sur leurs vieux jours les puissants se souviennent, II n'a su réchauffer ce cadavre hébété Où coule au lieu de sang l'eau verte du Léthé // I'm like the king of a rain-country, rich but sterile, young but with an old wolf's itch, one who escapes his tutor's monologues, and kills the day in boredom with his dogs; nothing cheers him, darts, tennis, falconry, his people dying by the balcony; the bawdry of the pet hermaphrodite no longer gets him through a single night; his bed of fleur-de-lys becomes a tomb; even the ladies of the court, for whom all kings are beautiful, cannot put on shameful enough dresses for this skeleton; the scholar who makes his gold cannot invent washes to cleanse the poisoned element; even in baths of blood, Rome's legacy, our tyrants' solace in senility, he cannot warm up his shot corpse, whose food is syrup-green Lethean ooze, not blood. — Robert Lowell, from Marthiel & Jackson Matthews, eds., The Flowers of Evil (NY: New Directions, 1963)

Her Hair O tumble to the collarbone, O fleece, O locks, O fragrance full of “I don’t care,” what ecstasy! To stuff a gloomy place with all I know is rife within this mass, I’ll shake it like a kerchief in the air.

In the evening streamed down the radiant sun, That great eye which stares from the inquisitive sky. From behind the window that scattered its bright rays It seemed to gaze upon our long, quiet dinners, Spreading wide its candle-like reflections On the frugal table-cloth and the serge curtains.

Yet who has not clasped a skeleton in his arms, Who has not fed upon what belongs to the grave?What matters the perfume, the costume or the dress? He who shows disgust believes that he is handsome.  Noseless dancer, irresistible whore, Tell those dancing couples who act so offended: "Proud darlings, despite the art of makeup You all smell of death! Skeletons perfumed with musk,

I love you as I love nocturnal skies . . . I love you as I love nocturnal skies, O grandiose reserve, O tear-filled vase.° Attractive one, midnight accessory, I love you more the more you run from me, the more mockingly you expand the breach between the big blue and my farthest reach. I rush you, climb you, outrage you as if I were a choir of worms, and you, a stiff. Implacable, cruel creature, I adore your chill—it makes you even lovelier.

Minutes, blithesome mortal, are bits of ore That you must not release without extracting the gold!  Remember, Time is a greedy player Who wins without cheating, every round! It's the law. The daylight wanes; the night deepens; remember! The abyss thirsts always; the water-clock runs low.  Soon will sound the hour when divine Chance, When august Virtue, your still virgin wife, When even Repentance (the very last of inns!), When all will say: Die, old coward! it is too late!

Then the woman with the strawberry mouth, Squirming like a snake upon the coals, Kneading her breasts against the iron of her corset, Let flow these words scented with musk: — “I have wet lips, and I know the art Of losing old conscience in the depths of a bed… — Charles Baudelaire, from “The Metamorphoses of the Vampire,” Fleurs du mal / Flowers of Evil. Translated by Geoffrey Wagner. (David R. Godine; First edition, second printing edition October 1, 1985) Originally published 1857.

Tell me, what singular harvest,Convicts torn from cemeteries, Do you reap, and of what farmer Do you have to fill the barn?  Do you wish (clear, frightful symbol Of too cruel a destiny!) To show that even in the grave None is sure of the promised sleep;  That Annihilation betrays us; That all, even Death, lies to us, And that forever and ever, Alas! we shall be forced perhaps  In some unknown country To scrape the hard and stony groundAnd to push a heavy spade in With our bare and bleeding feet?

Meditation Calm down, my Sorrow, we must move with care. You called for evening; it descends; it's here. The town is coffined in its atmosphere, bringing relief to some, to others care. Now while the common multitude strips bare, feels pleasure's cat o' nine tails on its back, and fights off anguish at the great bazaar, give me your hand, my Sorrow. Let's stand back; back from these people! Look, the dead years dressed in old clothes crowd the balconies of the sky. Regret emerges smiling from the sea, the sick sun slumbers underneath an arch, and like a shroud strung out from east to west, listen, my Dearest, hear the sweet night march!

Sed Non Satiata Strange deity, brown as nights, Whose perfume is mixed with musk and Havanah, Magical creation, Faust of the savanna, Sorceress with the ebony thighs, child of black midnights, I prefer to African wines, to opium, to burgundy, The elixir of your mouth where love parades itself; When my desires leave in caravan for you, Your eyes are the reservoir where my cares drink. From those two great black eyes, chimneys of our spirit, O pitiless demon, throw out less flame at me; I am no Styx to clasp you nine times, Nor can I, alas, dissolute shrew, To break your courage, bring you to bay, Become any Proserpine in the hell of your bed! — Charles Baudelaire, from “Sed, Fleurs du mal / Flowers of Evil. Translated by Geoffrey Wagner. (David R. Godine; First edition, second printing edition October 1, 1985) Originally published 1857.

Decadents looked to Charles Baudelaire, author of The Flowers of Evil (1857), as an important influence. He described his aesthetic project as an alchemical process of extracting beauty from evil.

Germans fell silent, watching her, moving sideways to let her pass. Isabelle heard one of them say “mannish” and another “widow.” Anouk seemed not to notice them at all. At the counter she stopped and took a long drag on her cigarette. The smoke blurred her face, and for a moment, only her cherry-red lips were noticeable. She reached down for her handbag and withdrew a small brown book. The author’s name—Baudelaire—was etched into the leather, and although the surface was so scratched and worn and discolored the title was impossible to read, Isabelle knew the volume. Les Fleurs du mal. The Flowers of Evil. It was the book they used to signal a meeting. “I am looking for something else by this author,” Anouk said, exhaling smoke. “I am sorry, Madame. I have no more Baudelaire. Some Verlaine, perhaps? Or Rimbaud?” “Nothing then.” Anouk turned and left the bookshop. It wasn’t until the bell tinkled that her spell broke and the soldiers began speaking again. When no one was looking, Isabelle palmed the small volume of poetry. Inside of it was a message for her to deliver, along with the time it was to be delivered. The place was as usual: the bench in front of the Comédie Française

The poet is akin to this prince of the clouds Who haunts the raging storm and laughs at bows and slings; In exile on the earth amid the baying crowds, His movement is restricted by his giant wings.

Fantasize, together: Take a page from The Thousand and One Nights and incorporate a story into foreplay. If you’re not a born storyteller, try reading one aloud together. Some literary recommendations: James Salter’s erotic masterpiece, A Sport and a Pastime; Anais Nin’s collections of short stories Delta of Venus and Little Birds; the erotic novels Emanuelle by Emanuelle Arsan and Story of O by Pauline Réage; Harold Brodkey’s sexual saga “Innocence”—perhaps the greatest depiction of a session of cunnilingus ever penned; novels by Jerzy Kosinski such as Passion Play and Cockpit; Henry Miller’s Under the Roofs of Paris and Quiet Days in Clichy; My Secret Life by Anonymous and The Pure and the Impure by Colette; Nancy Friday’s anthology of fantasies, Secret Garden (filled with the correspondence of real people’s fantasies); stories from The Mammoth Book of Erotica or one of the many erotic anthologies edited by Susie Bright. For those with a taste for poetry, try Les Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Evil) by Charles Baudelaire or Flesh Unlimited by Guillaume Apollinaire. And for those who like comic books (kinky ones, that is), try the extra-hot works of writer/illustrator Eric Stanton,

Isabelle knew the volume. Les Fleurs du mal. The Flowers of Evil. It was the book they used to signal a meeting. “I am looking for something else by this author,” Anouk said, exhaling smoke. “I am sorry, Madame. I have no more Baudelaire. Some Verlaine, perhaps? Or Rimbaud?