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The Kingdom of God is Within You; What is Art?
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"I would gladly love her, goddess and immortal."
Gold?
"I hate it as you hate God."
Then what do you love, extraordinary stranger?
"I love the clouds … the clouds that pass … there … the marvelous clouds!"
BAUDELAIRE'S PROSE POEM
THE SOUP AND THE CLOUDS
My beloved little silly was giving me my dinner, and I was contemplating, through the open window of the dining-room, those moving architectures which God makes out of vapors, the marvelous constructions of the impalpable. And I said to myself, amid my contemplations, "All these phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as the eyes of my beautiful beloved, the monstrous little silly with the green eyes."
Suddenly I felt the violent blow of a fist on my back, and I heard a harsh, charming voice, an hysterical voice, as it were hoarse with brandy, the voice of my dear little well-beloved, saying, "Are you going to eat your soup soon, you d – b – of a dealer in clouds?"
BAUDELAIRE'S PROSE POEM
THE GALLANT MARKSMAN
As the carriage was passing through the forest, he ordered it to be stopped near a shooting-gallery, saying that he wished to shoot off a few bullets to kill Time. To kill this monster, is it not the most ordinary and the most legitimate occupation of every one? And he gallantly offered his arm to his dear, delicious, and execrable wife – that mysterious woman to whom he owed so much pleasure, so much pain, and perhaps also a large part of his genius.
Several bullets struck far from the intended mark – one even penetrated the ceiling; and as the charming creature laughed madly, mocking her husband's awkwardness, he turned abruptly toward her and said, "Look at that doll there on the right with the haughty mien and her nose in the air; well, dear angel, I imagine to myself that it is you!" And he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The doll was neatly decapitated.
Then, bowing toward his dear one, his delightful, execrable wife, his inevitable pitiless muse, and kissing her hand respectfully, he added, "Ah! my dear angel, how I thank you for my skill!"
VERLAINE'S "FORGOTTEN AIRS"
No. I
"The wind in the plain
Suspends its breath." – Favart.
'Tis ecstasy languishing,
Amorous fatigue,
Of woods all the shudderings
Embraced by the breeze,
'Tis the choir of small voices
Toward the gray trees.
Oh, the frail and fresh murmuring!
The twitter and buzz,
The soft cry resembling
That's expired by the grass…
Oh, the roll of the pebbles
'Neath waters that pass!
Oh, this soul that is groaning
In sleepy complaint!
In us is it moaning?
In me and in you?
Low anthem exhaling
While soft falls the dew.
VERLAINE'S "FORGOTTEN AIRS"
No. VIII
In the unending
Dullness of this land,
Uncertain the snow
Is gleaming like sand.
No kind of brightness
In copper-hued sky,
The moon you might see
Now live and now die.
Gray float the oak trees —
Cloudlike they seem —
Of neighboring forests,
The mists in between.
Wolves hungry and lean,
And famishing crow,
What happens to you
When acid winds blow?
In the unending
Dullness of this land,
Uncertain the snow
Is gleaming like sand.
SONG BY MAETERLINCK
When he went away,
(Then I heard the door)
When he went away,
On her lips a smile there lay…
Back he came to her,
(Then I heard the lamp)
Back he came to her,
Someone else was there…
It was death I met,
(And I heard her soul)
It was death I met,
Gold?
"I hate it as you hate God."
Then what do you love, extraordinary stranger?
"I love the clouds … the clouds that pass … there … the marvelous clouds!"
BAUDELAIRE'S PROSE POEM
THE SOUP AND THE CLOUDS
My beloved little silly was giving me my dinner, and I was contemplating, through the open window of the dining-room, those moving architectures which God makes out of vapors, the marvelous constructions of the impalpable. And I said to myself, amid my contemplations, "All these phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as the eyes of my beautiful beloved, the monstrous little silly with the green eyes."
Suddenly I felt the violent blow of a fist on my back, and I heard a harsh, charming voice, an hysterical voice, as it were hoarse with brandy, the voice of my dear little well-beloved, saying, "Are you going to eat your soup soon, you d – b – of a dealer in clouds?"
BAUDELAIRE'S PROSE POEM
THE GALLANT MARKSMAN
As the carriage was passing through the forest, he ordered it to be stopped near a shooting-gallery, saying that he wished to shoot off a few bullets to kill Time. To kill this monster, is it not the most ordinary and the most legitimate occupation of every one? And he gallantly offered his arm to his dear, delicious, and execrable wife – that mysterious woman to whom he owed so much pleasure, so much pain, and perhaps also a large part of his genius.
Several bullets struck far from the intended mark – one even penetrated the ceiling; and as the charming creature laughed madly, mocking her husband's awkwardness, he turned abruptly toward her and said, "Look at that doll there on the right with the haughty mien and her nose in the air; well, dear angel, I imagine to myself that it is you!" And he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The doll was neatly decapitated.
Then, bowing toward his dear one, his delightful, execrable wife, his inevitable pitiless muse, and kissing her hand respectfully, he added, "Ah! my dear angel, how I thank you for my skill!"
VERLAINE'S "FORGOTTEN AIRS"
No. I
"The wind in the plain
Suspends its breath." – Favart.
'Tis ecstasy languishing,
Amorous fatigue,
Of woods all the shudderings
Embraced by the breeze,
'Tis the choir of small voices
Toward the gray trees.
Oh, the frail and fresh murmuring!
The twitter and buzz,
The soft cry resembling
That's expired by the grass…
Oh, the roll of the pebbles
'Neath waters that pass!
Oh, this soul that is groaning
In sleepy complaint!
In us is it moaning?
In me and in you?
Low anthem exhaling
While soft falls the dew.
VERLAINE'S "FORGOTTEN AIRS"
No. VIII
In the unending
Dullness of this land,
Uncertain the snow
Is gleaming like sand.
No kind of brightness
In copper-hued sky,
The moon you might see
Now live and now die.
Gray float the oak trees —
Cloudlike they seem —
Of neighboring forests,
The mists in between.
Wolves hungry and lean,
And famishing crow,
What happens to you
When acid winds blow?
In the unending
Dullness of this land,
Uncertain the snow
Is gleaming like sand.
SONG BY MAETERLINCK
When he went away,
(Then I heard the door)
When he went away,
On her lips a smile there lay…
Back he came to her,
(Then I heard the lamp)
Back he came to her,
Someone else was there…
It was death I met,
(And I heard her soul)
It was death I met,
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