Tumgik
#fleurs du mal
random-brushstrokes · 21 days
Text
Tumblr media
Federico Beltrán Masses - Les Fleurs Du Mal (1946)
312 notes · View notes
juliett-romeo · 4 months
Text
Tumblr media
Viens sur mon cœur, âme cruelle et sourde, / Tigre adoré, monstre aux airs indolents; / Je veux longtemps plonger mes doigts tremblants / Dans l'épaisseur de ta crinière lourde;
177 notes · View notes
megairea · 2 years
Quote
We spoke eternal things that cannot die —
Charles Baudelaire, from The Balcony; Fleurs du Mal (tr. by Roy Campbell), 1857
1K notes · View notes
hyperions-fate · 2 months
Text
Babel of arcades and stairways,
It was a palace infinite,
Full of basins and of cascades
Falling on dull or burnished gold
Charles Baudelaire, 'Parisian Dream' (Fleurs du Mal) (Trans. William Aggeler)
22 notes · View notes
sex-death-rebirth · 1 year
Text
Tumblr media
Illustration by Carlo Farneti for the 1935 edition of Charles Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal
162 notes · View notes
Text
Tumblr media
97 notes · View notes
knifeeater · 1 year
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Alice Notley   The Descent of Alette
Aase Berg   Dark Matter  transl. J. Göransson
33 notes · View notes
dimalink · 6 months
Text
Sarah Brightman in red
Tumblr media
Pixel art about music theme. Miss Sarah Brightman. From a cover of album Symphony. So, it is now starting autumn. It is age of rains, gloomy weather. And colorful leaves. So, I think, this album is suit good for autumn. It has such songs as Running, Fleurs Du Mal. There is a song with a singer from Kiss Paul Stanley. Album it is pop music, and gothic and, as it is a rule, for miss Brightman in style of musicals and classic too.
And, I am, also, like a lot visual look for this tour, in red dress. So, it catches me a lot. It is very colorful and beautiful. Some kind, Alice in wonderland. But, I can also say the same about another albums. But this time with elements, of some gothic. Gargoyles there are a the cover.
And this is my picture the theme. So, I redraw cover, just like this.  But in my style. In style of MS DOS, retro, 16 bits, 8 bits. So, I can say, it is first pictures of this kind. I start from this interesting artist.
So, this art can be a part of some text story. Text quest. But it requires to draw a lot and write a lot. And, also, I can remember someway intro to Prince of Persia 2 for system PC MS DOS. It has a very interesting intro at the start. Like a story. It I something like this, but style is another. Alice in Wonderland, of course, also. But, a little more gothic. It a world of big mushrooms. And dusty abandoned places. Maybe, a little of gothic architecture and surrealism someway. Or at some sci fi planet of a strange civilization. In a videogame Torment Tides Of Numenera there is something like this.
16 notes · View notes
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
I died when I saw this… that’s literally me 💀
20 notes · View notes
whatthecrowtold · 1 year
Text
#unhallowedarts "Everything, alas, is an abyss, — actions, desires, dreams, Words!" - Baudelaire's "Fleurs Du Mal"
Tumblr media
Carlos Schwabe "Destruction" (1900)
“You know that I have always considered that literature and the arts pursue an aim independent of morality. Beauty of conception and style is enough for me. But this book, whose title (Les Fleurs du Mal) says everything, is clad, as you will see, in a cold and sinister beauty. It was created with rage and patience. Besides, the proof of its positive worth is in all the ill that they speak of it. The book enrages people. Moreover, since I was terrified myself of the horror that I should inspire, I cut out a third from the proofs. They deny me everything, the spirit of invention and even the knowledge of the French language. I don't care a rap about all these imbeciles, and I know that this book, with its virtues and its faults, will make its way in the memory of the lettered public, beside the best poems of V. Hugo, Th. Gautier and even Byron." (Baudelaire in a letter to his mother)
Tumblr media
Don Juan in Hades
"When Don Juan descended to the underground sea, And when he had given his obolus to Charon, That gloomy mendicant, with Antisthenes' proud look, Seized the two oars with strong, revengeful hands.
Showing their pendent breasts and their unfastened gowns Women writhed and twisted under the black heavens, And like a great flock of sacrificial victims, A continuous groan trailed along in the wake.
Sganarelle with a laugh was demanding his wage, While Don Luis with a trembling finger Was showing to the dead, wandering along the shores, The impudent son who had mocked his white brow.
Shuddering in her grief, Elvira, chaste and thin, Near her treacherous spouse who was once her lover, Seemed to implore of him a final, parting smile That would shine with the sweetness of his first promises.
Erect in his armor, a tall man carved from stone Was standing at the helm and cutting the black flood; But the hero unmoved, leaning on his rapier, Kept gazing at the wake and deigned not look aside."
Tumblr media
He turned out to be right. Victor Hugo himself wrote enthusiastic lines to his younger fellow melancholic, just a couple of his weeks after Baudelaire’s evil flowers sprouted from the booksellers’ shelves and were read in Paris salons and cafés while the Moloch of a metropolis around them swallowed its own children. In hecatombs. On a daily basis. Baudelaire was certainly not the first who found the urbs worthy enough for a good yarn or to inspire poetry. As backdrop or a scene, with the big city lights illuminating the dramatis personae. But never as an end in itself. He found a way to integrate his Romantic predecessors’ otherworldly Gothic mindscapes from their grim fairy tale-like settings of ruined castles, lofty mountaintops, dark forests and other exotic spots, rooted in history and legend, into a grim, contemporary reality. Paris had become the Castle of Otranto, an autotelic location inhabited by a genius loci of disillusion, pessimism and melancholy in their ugly and morbid actuality. Filled to the brim with black Romantic symbols and imagery. And while Baudelaire barrages the reader - his likeness, his brother – with biblical tropes and ancient mythology and not the likenesses of the miserables from Rue Trou à Rats it is impossible to imagine his picturesque, morbid misery in another light than that of the dim streetlights of the dark metropolis. Literary modernity had begun in earnest with “Les Fleurs du Mal”. And what earned the poet a lawsuit for offending the public moral of 1857 and forced him to publish his works abroad, can now be found as “epoch-making” in schoolbooks.
Tumblr media
Posthumous Remorse
"When you will sleep, O dusky beauty mine, Beneath a monument fashioned of black marble, When you will have for bedroom and mansion Only a rain-swept vault and a hollow grave,
When the slab of stone, oppressing your frightened breast And your flanks now supple with charming nonchalance, Will keep your heart from beating, from wishing, And your feet from running their adventurous course,
The tomb, confidant of my infinite dreams (For the tomb will always understand the poet) Through those long nights from which all sleep is banned, will say:
"What does it profit you, imperfect courtesan, Not to have known why the dead weep?" — And like remorse the worm will gnaw your skin."
Tumblr media
When the poet lay dying at the age of 46 in Dr Duval’s hospital in the Quartier Chaillot in Paris, after a stroke he suffered the year before in Brussels that left him paralysed on one side and incapable of speech, cared for by his ageing mother, there were really few things left that he had not pursued within the framework of a stereotypical vie de la bohème. Picking up the Great Pox when he was 18, dawdling in the Parisian demi-monde while letting his law studies slide, experimenting with every type of narcotics available, drinking, of course, like a sailor on shore leave, squandering his inheritance, making several suicide attempts, living with his Haitian mistress Jeanne Duval, an actress and dancer of mixed French and black African ancestry, while declaring popular courtesans to be his muses, being always in debt and indulging in Wagner and whatnot. And, as a sideline, Baudelaire squeezing the idea, the spirit and the awareness of modernity out of the chaos of his own life and the labour pains of the industrial age and pressing it in the shape of a poetic language that was and his unheard of in its quality and depth.
Tumblr media
Spleen
"I have more memories than if I'd lived a thousand years.
A heavy chest of drawers cluttered with balance-sheets, Processes, love-letters, verses, ballads, And heavy locks of hair enveloped in receipts, Hides fewer secrets than my gloomy brain. It is a pyramid, a vast burial vault Which contains more corpses than potter's field. — I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, In which long worms crawl like remorse And constantly harass my dearest dead. I am an old boudoir full of withered roses, Where lies a whole litter of old-fashioned dresses, Where the plaintive pastels and the pale Bouchers, Alone, breathe in the fragrance from an opened phial.
Nothing is so long as those limping days, When under the heavy flakes of snowy years Ennui, the fruit of dismal apathy, Becomes as large as immortality. — Henceforth you are no more, O living matter! Than a block of granite surrounded by vague terrors, Dozing in the depths of a hazy Sahara An old sphinx ignored by a heedless world, Omitted from the map, whose savage nature Sings only in the rays of a setting sun."
All poems quoted above are from Charles Baudelaire's "Fleurs du Mal" (1857) - the imagery for Baudelaire's epochal poems was created by the Swiss Symbolist Carlos Schwabe (1866 - 1926) for the 1900 edition, complete and bilingual, linked as facsimile below.
25 notes · View notes
Text
Tumblr media
Achille Calzi - Le Fleurs du Mal (Donna con serpente), 1913
163 notes · View notes
juliett-romeo · 4 months
Text
Tumblr media
Pour n'être pas changés en bêtes, ils s'enivrent / D'espace et de lumière et de cieux embrasés; / La glace qui les mord, les soleils qui les cuivrent, / Effacent lentement la marque des baisers.
Ch.Bdlr
16 notes · View notes
megairea · 2 years
Quote
O fierce cruel beast, I cherish to the full The very chill that makes you beautiful.
Charles Baudelaire, from Elevation; Fleurs du Mal (tr. by Jacques LeClercq), 1857
380 notes · View notes
Text
Original French:
Les Métamorphoses du vampire
La femme cependant, de sa bouche de fraise,
En se tordant ainsi qu'un serpent sur la braise,
Et pétrissant ses seins sur le fer de son busc,
Laissait couler ces mots tout imprégnés de musc:
— «Moi, j'ai la lèvre humide, et je sais la science
De perdre au fond d'un lit l'antique conscience.
Je sèche tous les pleurs sur mes seins triomphants,
Et fais rire les vieux du rire des enfants.
Je remplace, pour qui me voit nue et sans voiles,
La lune, le soleil, le ciel et les étoiles!
Je suis, mon cher savant, si docte aux voluptés,
Lorsque j'étouffe un homme en mes bras redoutés,
Ou lorsque j'abandonne aux morsures mon buste,
Timide et libertine, et fragile et robuste,
Que sur ces matelas qui se pâment d'émoi,
Les anges impuissants se damneraient pour moi!»
Quand elle eut de mes os sucé toute la moelle,
Et que languissamment je me tournai vers elle
Pour lui rendre un baiser d'amour, je ne vis plus
Qu'une outre aux flancs gluants, toute pleine de pus!
Je fermai les deux yeux, dans ma froide épouvante,
Et quand je les rouvris à la clarté vivante,
À mes côtés, au lieu du mannequin puissant
Qui semblait avoir fait provision de sang,
Tremblaient confusément des débris de squelette,
Qui d'eux-mêmes rendaient le cri d'une girouette
Ou d'une enseigne, au bout d'une tringle de fer,
Que balance le vent pendant les nuits d'hiver.
— Charles Baudelaire
An English Translation:
Metamorphoses of the Vampire
Meanwhile from her red mouth the woman, in husky tones,
Twisting her body like a serpent upon hot stones
And straining her white breasts from their imprisonment,
Let fall these words, as potent as a heavy scent:
"My lips are moist and yielding, and I know the way
To keep the antique demon of remorse at bay.
All sorrows die upon my bosom. I can make
Old men laugh happily as children for my sake.
For him who sees me naked in my tresses, I
Replace the sun, the moon, and all the stars of the sky!
Believe me, learnèd sir, I am so deeply skilled
That when I wind a lover in my soft arms, and yield
My breasts like two ripe fruits for his devouring — both
Shy and voluptuous, insatiable and loath —
Upon this bed that groans and sighs luxuriously
Even the impotent angels would be damned for me!"
When she had drained me of my very marrow, and cold
And weak, I turned to give her one more kiss — behold,
There at my side was nothing but a hideous
Putrescent thing, all faceless and exuding pus.
I closed my eyes and mercifully swooned till day:
And when I looked at morning for that beast of prey
Who seemed to have replenished her arteries from my own,
The wan, disjointed fragments of a skeleton
Wagged up and down in a lewd posture where she had lain,
Rattling with each convulsion like a weathervane
Or an old sign that creaks upon its bracket, right
Mournfully in the wind upon a winter's night.
— George Dillon, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)
fleursdumal.org
Tumblr media
2 notes · View notes
hyperions-fate · 1 year
Text
Nature is a temple in which living pillars Sometimes give voice to confused words; Man passes there through forests of symbols Which look at him with understanding eyes.
Charles Baudelaire, 'Correspondences' (Fleurs du mal, Trans. William Aggeler)
49 notes · View notes
angelicmartini · 2 years
Text
Indolent darling, how I love
To see the skin
Of your body so beautiful
Shimmer like silk!
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
42 notes · View notes