Baudelaire is a masculine poet. He carved rather than sang; the plastic arts spoke to his soul. A lover and maker of images. Like Poe, his emotions transformed themselves into ideas. Bourget classified him as mystic, libertine, and analyst. He was born with a wound in his soul, to use the phrase of Père Lacordaire.
Recall Baudelaire’s prayer: ‘Thou, O Lord, my God, grant me the grace to produce some fine lines which will prove to myself that I am not the last of men, that I am not inferior to those I contemn.’ Individualist, egoist, anarchist, his only thought was letters. Jules Laforgue thus described Baudelaire: ‘Cat, Hindoo, Yankee, Episcopal, Alchemist.’ Yes, an alchemist who suffocated in the fumes he created. He was of Gothic imagination, and could have said with Rolla: ‘Je suis venu trop tard dans un monde trop vieux.’ He had an unassuaged thirst for the absolute. The human soul was his stage, he its interpreting orchestra.
المزيد من الكتب الإلكترونية من نفس المؤلف (المؤلفين) / محرر
17٬679 كتب إلكترونية في هذه الفئة
