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Flowers of Evil: A Selection
The greatest French poet of the 19th century, Baudelaire was also the first truly modem poet, and his direct and indirect influence on the literature of our time has been immeasurable.
Flowers of Evil: A Selection contains 53 poems which the editors feel best represent the total work and which. in their opinion, have been most successfully rendered into English. The French texts as established by Yves Gérard Le Dantec for the Pléiade edition are printed en face. Included are Baudelaire's "Three Drafts of a Preface" and brief notes on the nineteen translators whose work is represented.
Flowers of Evil: A Selection contains 53 poems which the editors feel best represent the total work and which. in their opinion, have been most successfully rendered into English. The French texts as established by Yves Gérard Le Dantec for the Pléiade edition are printed en face. Included are Baudelaire's "Three Drafts of a Preface" and brief notes on the nineteen translators whose work is represented.
168 pages, Paperback
Published January 1, 1958
106 people are currently reading
3664 people want to read
About the author
Charles Baudelaire
2,050 books4,176 followersPublic condemned
Les fleurs du mal
(1857), obscene only volume of French writer, translator, and critic Charles Pierre Baudelaire; expanded in 1861, it exerted an enormous influence over later symbolist and modernist poets.
Reputation of Charles Pierre Baudelaire rests primarily on perhaps the most important literary art collection, published in Europe in the 19th century. Similarly, his early experiment Petits poèmes en prose (1868) ( Little Prose Poems ) most succeeded and innovated of the time.
From financial disaster to prosecution for blasphemy, drama and strife filled life of known Baudelaire with highly controversial and often dark tales of Edgar Allan Poe. Long after his death, his name represents depravity and vice. He seemingly speaks directly to the 20th century civilization.
Reputation of Charles Pierre Baudelaire rests primarily on perhaps the most important literary art collection, published in Europe in the 19th century. Similarly, his early experiment Petits poèmes en prose (1868) ( Little Prose Poems ) most succeeded and innovated of the time.
From financial disaster to prosecution for blasphemy, drama and strife filled life of known Baudelaire with highly controversial and often dark tales of Edgar Allan Poe. Long after his death, his name represents depravity and vice. He seemingly speaks directly to the 20th century civilization.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 87 reviews
October 11, 2016
تاريخ القراءة الأصلي : ٢٠٠٠
قصائد مجنونة مجنونة مجنونة، تزرع فيك بعمق الرغبة بالتمرد والإنطلاق بعيدا عن قوالب الحياة التقليدية
قصائد مجنونة مجنونة مجنونة، تزرع فيك بعمق الرغبة بالتمرد والإنطلاق بعيدا عن قوالب الحياة التقليدية
May 6, 2019
very dark and disterbing poem.
August 9, 2007
The actual quality of the poetry is really good, but the translations are often questionable. Sometimes the rhyme scheme gets changed, phrases are put in different orders, even punctuation varies from the original. It's nice to have the French there to look at, though my pronunciation is probably lacking, but overall I think I only like literal translations that don't try to keep the meter and rhyme becuz that's a lot truer to the diction and imagery.
October 28, 2018
Sta reci o Bodleru! Hvala Kolji Micevicu na divnom prevodu.
May 23, 2013
A beautiful translation of the immensely charming but difficult French 'Les Fleurs du Mal' - Baudelaire's dark, sensuous themes are unparalleled, perhaps in any language till date. Once outraged the world by its explicitness, now a landmark book, frank and bold in style and mourning, deeply sad in tone.
August 18, 2014
"on the groaning spirit, victim of long ennui,"
June 5, 2025
edgy man poetry blehhhh some beautiful lines tho
April 1, 2008
while i agree with the other reviews and know that some of these translations aren't at all true to the originals, i still feel this is something i will continue to re-read well into the future. if the translations are just shadows, i imagine the originals are sublime (now to learn french and find out).
June 3, 2008
Baudelaire...is...GOD.
August 15, 2016
"Upon your lips dwells great oblivion/
And Lethe flows on in your every kiss"...marvellous..!!
And Lethe flows on in your every kiss"...marvellous..!!
February 6, 2016
There were very few poems that appealed to me in this selection. Perhaps the translations are not very good.
March 26, 2017
My heart literally hurts, the imagery that Baudelaire stirs up with his wonderful words are truly masterful of literature.
April 8, 2022
I like how Baudelaire's dark pessimism exists in perfect harmony with his romantic heart. I find that to be very moving.
August 2, 2019
My first dip into Baudelaire was fantastic. I pity the poor fools I spoke to during this time. So powerful. Gah! Man And Sea was my favorite. But so many I spent time on.
January 20, 2024
3.5
i liked the sensual poems the most. if only i knew french..
i liked the sensual poems the most. if only i knew french..
January 18, 2022
Folly and error, avarice and vice,
Employ our souls and waste our bodies' force.
As mangy beggars incubate their lice,
We nourish our innocuous remorse.
Our sins are stubborn, craven our repentance.
For our weak vows we ask excessive prices.
Trusting our tears will wash away the sentence,
We sneak off where the muddy road entices.
Cradled in evil, that Thrice-Great Magician,
The Devil, rocks our souls, that can't resist;
And the rich metal of our own volition
Is vaporized by that sage alchemist.
The Devil pulls the strings by which we're worked:
By all revolting objects lured, we slink
Hellwards; each day down one more step we're jerked
Feeling no horror, through the shades that stink.
Just as a lustful pauper bites and kisses
The scarred and shrivelled breast of an old whore,
We steal, along the roadside, furtive blisses,
Squeezing them like stale oranges for more.
Packed tight, like hives of maggots, thickly seething,
Within our brains a host of demons surges.
Deep down into our lungs at every breathing,
Death flows, an unseen river, moaning dirges.
If rape or arson, poison, or the knife
Has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff
Of this drab canvas we accept as life -
It is because we are not bold enough!
Amongst the jackals, leopards, mongrels, apes,
Snakes, scorpions, vultures, that with hellish din,
Squeal, roar, writhe, gambol, crawl, with monstrous shapes,
In each man's foul menagerie of sin -
There's one more damned than all. He never gambols,
Nor crawls, nor roars, but, from the rest withdrawn,
Gladly of this whole earth would make a shambles
And swallow up existence with a yawn . . .
Boredom! He smokes his hookah, while he dreams
Of gibbets, weeping tears he cannot smother.
You know this dainty monster, too, it seems -
Hypocrite reader! - You! - My twin! - My brother!
* * *
Long since, I lived beneath vast porticoes,
By many ocean-sunsets tinged and fired,
Where mighty pillars, in majestic rows,
Seemed like basaltic caves when day expired.
The rolling surge that mirrored all the skies
Mingled its music, turbulent and rich,
Solemn and mystic, with the colours which
The setting sun reflected in my eyes.
And there I lived amid voluptuous calms,
In splendours of blue sky and wandering wave,
Tended by many a naked, perfumed slave,
Who fanned my languid brow with waving palms.
They were my slaves - the only care they had
To know what secret grief had made me sad.
* * *
You are an autumn sky, suffused with rose . . .
Yet sadness rises in me like the sea,
And on my sombre lip, when it outflows,
Leave its salt burning slime for memory.
Over my swooning breast your fingers stray;
In vain, alas! My breast in a void pit
Sacked by the tooth and claw of woman. Nay,
Seek not my heart; the beasts have eaten it!
My heart is as a palace plundered
By the wolves, wherein they gorge and rend and kill,
A perfume round thy naked throat is shed . . .
Beauty, strong scourge of souls, O work thy will!
Scorch with thy fiery eyes which shine like feasts
These shreds of flesh rejected by the beasts!
* * *
Old Pluvius, month of rains, in peevish mood
Pours from his urn chill winter's sodden gloom
On corpses fading in the near graveyard,
On foggy suburbs pours life's tedium.
My cat seeks out a litter on the stones,
Her mangy body turning without rest.
An ancient poet's soul in monotones
Whines in the rain-spouts like a chilblained ghost.
A great bell mourns, a wet log wrapped in smoke
Sings in falsetto to the wheezing clock,
While from a rankly perfumed deck of cards
(A dropsical old crone's fatal bequest)
The Queen of Spades, the dapper Jack of Hearts
Speak darkly of dead loves, how they were lost.
* * *
A furious Angel plunged from the sky like a hawk,
Gripped the sinner with rough hands by the hair,
And shaking him, shouted, "You shall obey, do you hear?
I am your Guardian Angel. No back talk!
Learn to love (for you must, and no grimaces!)
The poor, the spiteful, the deformed, the dumb;
For you must spread for Jesus when he comes
A rich carpet of Charity where he passes.
That is Love! Before your heart expire,
Let the glory of God set it afire;
That is the true Delight that cannot rot!"
Then the Angel, cruel as he was kind,
With giant hands twisted him till he whined;
But the damned soul still answered, "I will not!"
Employ our souls and waste our bodies' force.
As mangy beggars incubate their lice,
We nourish our innocuous remorse.
Our sins are stubborn, craven our repentance.
For our weak vows we ask excessive prices.
Trusting our tears will wash away the sentence,
We sneak off where the muddy road entices.
Cradled in evil, that Thrice-Great Magician,
The Devil, rocks our souls, that can't resist;
And the rich metal of our own volition
Is vaporized by that sage alchemist.
The Devil pulls the strings by which we're worked:
By all revolting objects lured, we slink
Hellwards; each day down one more step we're jerked
Feeling no horror, through the shades that stink.
Just as a lustful pauper bites and kisses
The scarred and shrivelled breast of an old whore,
We steal, along the roadside, furtive blisses,
Squeezing them like stale oranges for more.
Packed tight, like hives of maggots, thickly seething,
Within our brains a host of demons surges.
Deep down into our lungs at every breathing,
Death flows, an unseen river, moaning dirges.
If rape or arson, poison, or the knife
Has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff
Of this drab canvas we accept as life -
It is because we are not bold enough!
Amongst the jackals, leopards, mongrels, apes,
Snakes, scorpions, vultures, that with hellish din,
Squeal, roar, writhe, gambol, crawl, with monstrous shapes,
In each man's foul menagerie of sin -
There's one more damned than all. He never gambols,
Nor crawls, nor roars, but, from the rest withdrawn,
Gladly of this whole earth would make a shambles
And swallow up existence with a yawn . . .
Boredom! He smokes his hookah, while he dreams
Of gibbets, weeping tears he cannot smother.
You know this dainty monster, too, it seems -
Hypocrite reader! - You! - My twin! - My brother!
- To the Reader, pg. 3-5
* * *
Long since, I lived beneath vast porticoes,
By many ocean-sunsets tinged and fired,
Where mighty pillars, in majestic rows,
Seemed like basaltic caves when day expired.
The rolling surge that mirrored all the skies
Mingled its music, turbulent and rich,
Solemn and mystic, with the colours which
The setting sun reflected in my eyes.
And there I lived amid voluptuous calms,
In splendours of blue sky and wandering wave,
Tended by many a naked, perfumed slave,
Who fanned my languid brow with waving palms.
They were my slaves - the only care they had
To know what secret grief had made me sad.
- A Former Life, pg. 15-17
* * *
You are an autumn sky, suffused with rose . . .
Yet sadness rises in me like the sea,
And on my sombre lip, when it outflows,
Leave its salt burning slime for memory.
Over my swooning breast your fingers stray;
In vain, alas! My breast in a void pit
Sacked by the tooth and claw of woman. Nay,
Seek not my heart; the beasts have eaten it!
My heart is as a palace plundered
By the wolves, wherein they gorge and rend and kill,
A perfume round thy naked throat is shed . . .
Beauty, strong scourge of souls, O work thy will!
Scorch with thy fiery eyes which shine like feasts
These shreds of flesh rejected by the beasts!
- Conversation, pg. 57
* * *
Old Pluvius, month of rains, in peevish mood
Pours from his urn chill winter's sodden gloom
On corpses fading in the near graveyard,
On foggy suburbs pours life's tedium.
My cat seeks out a litter on the stones,
Her mangy body turning without rest.
An ancient poet's soul in monotones
Whines in the rain-spouts like a chilblained ghost.
A great bell mourns, a wet log wrapped in smoke
Sings in falsetto to the wheezing clock,
While from a rankly perfumed deck of cards
(A dropsical old crone's fatal bequest)
The Queen of Spades, the dapper Jack of Hearts
Speak darkly of dead loves, how they were lost.
- Spleen, pg. 63
* * *
A furious Angel plunged from the sky like a hawk,
Gripped the sinner with rough hands by the hair,
And shaking him, shouted, "You shall obey, do you hear?
I am your Guardian Angel. No back talk!
Learn to love (for you must, and no grimaces!)
The poor, the spiteful, the deformed, the dumb;
For you must spread for Jesus when he comes
A rich carpet of Charity where he passes.
That is Love! Before your heart expire,
Let the glory of God set it afire;
That is the true Delight that cannot rot!"
Then the Angel, cruel as he was kind,
With giant hands twisted him till he whined;
But the damned soul still answered, "I will not!"
- The Rebel, pg. 147
April 18, 2018
I listened to the audio version in the car and I have to say that was an advantage in this case. The intonations of the readers brought out some vivid imagery to my mind while listening to it. I doubt I could read it with the same intonations in my mind from the text in the book itself. Granted from the limited experience I have with world literature, this made me think a bit of Oscar Wilde's "The Picture Of Dorian Gray", in the sense that Baudelaire is trying to capture the "unspoilt beauty". It doesn't matter in this case whether it's in nature or in something pure or in a shady lady.
The difference being that Baudelaire draws the conclusion, I think, that beauty can come from all these things in an unspoilt manner. He even writes the line whether it is from heaven or hell in one of the poems. Wilde however is of the opinion that "unspoilt beauty" only exists where there's no sin, but sin makes one ugly and old. Dorian never gets old because his sins are casted upon the painting that was made of him.
Perhaps there are better parallels to draw with Baudelaire's work but I've yet to get familiar with that then. It was an interesting enough work and whether one agrees with the "unspoilt beauty" here is a matter of opinion. Mine differs in places but that doesn't take away from the fine prose he's written.
The difference being that Baudelaire draws the conclusion, I think, that beauty can come from all these things in an unspoilt manner. He even writes the line whether it is from heaven or hell in one of the poems. Wilde however is of the opinion that "unspoilt beauty" only exists where there's no sin, but sin makes one ugly and old. Dorian never gets old because his sins are casted upon the painting that was made of him.
Perhaps there are better parallels to draw with Baudelaire's work but I've yet to get familiar with that then. It was an interesting enough work and whether one agrees with the "unspoilt beauty" here is a matter of opinion. Mine differs in places but that doesn't take away from the fine prose he's written.
November 9, 2019
I enjoyed reading these poems. I found Baudelaire's poems with religious themes to be the most memorable like "Reversibility", "Abel and Cain", and "Litany to Satan". I now want to read all of the poems from Flowers of Evil.
My favorite poems and passages from this collection were:
To The Reader
"If rape or arson, poison, or the knife
Has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff
Of this drab canvas we accept as life -
It is because we are not bold enough!"
Jewels
The Mask
Lethe
"My doom, henceforth, is my sole desire:
As martyrs, being demented in their zeal,
Shake with delightful spasms upon the wheel,
Implore the whip, or puff upon the fire,"
Reversibility
The Sadness of the Moon
The Glady Dead
Heautontimoroumenos
"I am the wound, and yet the blade!
The slap, and yet the cheek that takes it!
The limb, and yet the wheel that breaks it,
The torturer, and he who's flayed!"
The Irremediable
The Gaming Table
"When these with passion their bright destruction bliss,
Who, drunk with the pulse of their own blood, preferred
Deep pain to death and Hell to nothingness."
The Martyr
My favorite poems and passages from this collection were:
To The Reader
"If rape or arson, poison, or the knife
Has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff
Of this drab canvas we accept as life -
It is because we are not bold enough!"
Jewels
The Mask
Lethe
"My doom, henceforth, is my sole desire:
As martyrs, being demented in their zeal,
Shake with delightful spasms upon the wheel,
Implore the whip, or puff upon the fire,"
Reversibility
The Sadness of the Moon
The Glady Dead
Heautontimoroumenos
"I am the wound, and yet the blade!
The slap, and yet the cheek that takes it!
The limb, and yet the wheel that breaks it,
The torturer, and he who's flayed!"
The Irremediable
The Gaming Table
"When these with passion their bright destruction bliss,
Who, drunk with the pulse of their own blood, preferred
Deep pain to death and Hell to nothingness."
The Martyr
April 22, 2017
Baudelaire recognized that there is something irresistibly fascinating, and even beautiful, about evil, and that the exploration of the roots of that fascination would lead not only to a greater understanding of both beauty and evil, but as well to a more intimate, and even essential knowledge of oneself.
Many of the poems are in sonnet or quatrain form, and if I am not mistaken, "Litany to Satan" deploys the heroic couplet. Metrically, most of Baudelaire's lines are alexandrines (six iambs).
The book includes the text of the poems in the original French on the facing pages. The English versions are by a number of different translators, including Edna St. Vincent Millay, Aldous Huxley, Richard Wilbur and Roy Campbell.
Many of the poems are in sonnet or quatrain form, and if I am not mistaken, "Litany to Satan" deploys the heroic couplet. Metrically, most of Baudelaire's lines are alexandrines (six iambs).
The book includes the text of the poems in the original French on the facing pages. The English versions are by a number of different translators, including Edna St. Vincent Millay, Aldous Huxley, Richard Wilbur and Roy Campbell.
October 1, 2011
Baudelaire comes right to the point in his draft of the preface to Les Fleurs du Mal: Pretty poems about pretty things are easy. Pretty poems about the unpretty evils of life? Now *that's* a challenge. And so from the opening sally "To the Reader" he proposes to dance us all down the road to hell, celebrating every vice in verse, in order to escape the burden of ennui. It's a pose he adopts with a wink, announcing: "I have included a certain amount of filth to please the gentlemen of the press. They have proved ungrateful." Marthiel and Jackson Mathews' collection is remarkable for their dedication to finding the best translation of each poem - a full 19 translators' work appears here, including that of Aldous Huxley and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Though not for everyone, I find this one worth the money simply for George Dillon's translation of "Lethe," which remains easily the best I have ever seen and one of my favorite poems.
July 17, 2009
I've been feverish lately. I got a real bad cold and spent the past week shivering and sweating. The aches were pretty bad too. Anyway, I did this thing where I would try and read a poem, but could only get through one before falling into some fever dreams. They went together beautifully. I would read the poem, dream the poem, then wake up and read a new one. I felt like I had stumbled upon the exact right thing at the exact right time, and though I was not in the optimum state for going to work or going outside or even being conscious, I was in the exact perfect state to read Baudelaire.
May 14, 2010
These poems very often accomplish what they appear to be attempting, or at least what I imagine them to be attempting from what I can gather from the author's preface: to reveal beauty in things that generally bring us sadness or fear. Great concept.
February 14, 2013
I don't know if its the poetry I can't get into or simply a translation that leaves you with a feeling that something fundamental is lost. I get the idea of what Baudelaire is about, but need to be able to read French to really get it.
August 31, 2013
I felt that there was something wrong with the translations. Also, having multiple translators made the text feel as if it wasn't one unified voice. Though, by and large, I did enjoy the poems singularly.
December 19, 2018
I kinda hate poetry. It tries to make banal shit, beautiful and profound. Kinda feels like embracing the world through the eyes of a mad, over dramatic 16 year old french girl (that uses words very well).
June 25, 2008
i prefer this edition.
August 14, 2008
A collection of Baudelaire's finest - I found these translations to be the most accurate and enjoyable.
October 22, 2008
I LOVE THIS TRANSLATION!!!!!!! I cannot begin to say how awesome it is.
December 7, 2009
Assigned poetry in college actually went better than I thought it would. Quite extreme but isn't poetry supposed to evoke strong emotion?
January 2, 2013
seductive. perfect. delicious.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 87 reviews