The Poems and Prose Poems of Charles Baudelaire With an Introductory Preface By James Huneker (Classic Reprint)
via JAMES HUNEKER. For the sentimental no higher foe exists than the iconoclast who dissipates literary legends. And he's in another country these days. these golden instances once they gossiped of De Quincey senormous opium intake, of the gin absorbed by means of light Charles Lamb, of Coleridge sdark methods, Byron sescapades, and Shelley satheism sadly! into what pale limbo have they vanished. Poe, too, whom we observed in fancy reeling from Eichmond to Baltimore, Baltimore to Philadelphia, Philadelphia to long island. these prevalent interesting anecdotes have long gone the best way of all such jerry-built spooks. We now be aware of Poe to were a guy affliction on the time of his loss of life from cerebral lesion, a guy who drank at durations and little. Dr. Guerrier of Paris has exploded a darling superstition approximately De Quincey sopium-eating.
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One beside you: where chilly all day. Others through fondness be successful over your lifestyles, your formative years: I depart it to worry. AUTUMN SONNET I learn the query on your crystal eyes: ‘Why do you like me, my unusual lover?’ remain stunning and hold nonetheless! Outraged through all other than the innocence of beasts, my middle won't display its mystery pact with Hell, the furious legend written out in flames, to you whose fingers might cradle me in sleep. ardour offends me, and my brain is ache! carry me. Say not anything.
Hate is a inebriated on the darkish finish of the bar whose liquor merely makes him thirstier – a Hydra multiplies in each drop; chuffed the fellow who beverages to fulfill his destiny, yet Hate is fettered to a fiercer doom and can't even drink himself to demise. THE CRACKED BELL sour, yet candy in addition! on iciness nights while embers whiten at the fire, to listen to far off thoughts slowly surfacing, summoned through carillons chiming during the mist. Blessèd be the rugged-throated bell, alert and hard for all its.
Skeletons, previous and chilly, suffer the consistent seeping of the wintry weather snows, the passage of the years, and never one soul to alter the withered wreaths on rusty grilles… whilst the log I wear the hearth hisses and sings, if I should still see her sitting there, rather nonetheless, or if on a few chilly blue December evening i discovered her soaring in a nook of my room, by some means escaping her everlasting mattress to solid a motherly eye on her adult baby, what may possibly i locate to claim to this pious soul as I watched the.
With all its cavalcade of tears and fears and damaged hearts and poison darts and damn chains… and now the damn bones? I’m freed from that – loose and on my own! this night I’ll be lifeless under the influence of alcohol and lay myself out at the flooring and not using a moment notion; I’ll sleep like a puppy and not recognize or care while the skidding wheels of a wagon loaded down with rocks crushes my responsible head or cuts my heedless guts in part – what occurs, after that, is not any predicament of mine: to Hell with Hell! reliable.
depression emperor; Watteau Festivities the place many well-known hearts flutter like moths as they pass up in flame, the chandeliers during this enchanted glade solid a insanity at the minuet; Goya Nightmare filled with unfathomable issues, witches roasting foetuses in a pan, crones at a reflect served by means of bare women who straighten stockings to attract the Fiend; Delacroix Evil angels hang-out this lake of blood darkened through the fairway color of the firs, the place less than a troubled sky the trumpet-calls.