“Who only drinks water has a secret to hide. What there is of boring love, is the fact that it is a crime in which you cannot do without an accomplice. The most beautiful makeup of the Devil lies in convincing us that does not exist. Art is the creation of a magic suggestive that welcomes both the object and the subject. The imagination dominates the kingdom of truth and, within this realm, is the only possible one region. But who cares eternity of damnation to those who have tried, in one second the infinity of joy?”
A classic of French literature, The Flowers of Evil, is the trace of existence which he has left us, but not without having tried it on their skin the essence of life, the extraordinary combination of love and emotion. That man was born in Paris on a spring day in 1821, along with Verlaine and Rimbaud, Proust and Valery, has given us the secret of the wine and the tricks of the devil, obscuring the visibility of the obvious things to look exclusively to the wonder of the sky.
“Foolishness, error, sin, greed occupy our minds and torment our bodies and, like beggars that their insects feed, educate pleasant remorse. Son willful sins, regrets the cowards; our confessions we do pay handsomely, and delighted in the muddy path back, deluded that he had washed with tears base all our spots. On the pillow of evil, Satan Trismegistus along the spirit enchanted cradle, and the rich metal of our will comes evaporated from the chemical product. Devil holding the wires that move us! “
At the age of six years he lost his father, his mother married an officer in the French army, and the bourgeois respectability enters his existential horizon, but he will remain a stranger. The young Charles attended high school and graduated, however, very fond environments bohemian Parisians who led him into contact with artists and writers. In 1840 he began attending prostitutes, contracted venereal disease and plunges into a lifestyle deemed objectionable by his family in an attempt to remove him from those bad company, it provides you an exotic trip to India. From the geographical latitude, Charles Baudelaire returned to France, wrapped in the charm of the exotic that leads him to write his most famous work, The Flowers of Evil.
“Gaining the new year: a chaos of mud and snow crossed by a thousand carriages, glittering toys and sweets, teeming with greed and despair, the great city official in his delirium, the brain did it on purpose to upset even the most recalcitrant loners. In the midst of the uproar, that chaos, a donkey trotted anxiously, incited by a boor armed with a whip.”
In 1842 he is an accomplished art critic, lives wrapped up in hallucinations of drugs in debts and produced by his taste for luxury spree, knowing Jeanne Duval – its Black Venus – letting you drag in a turbulent love story that inspires and enchants. He knows the thrill of the revolutions of 1848 and the music of Wagner, but also the disappointment of the Bonapartist restoration, gradually abandoning a precarious condition of psychological and material, without ever straying from the parentheses around its existence, that of beauty and evil, of human anguish and the divine. Charles Baudelaire travels throughout his life within those existential coordinates, getting drunk in the illusion of drugs and alcohol, the flowers of evil: “See on the canals of estrus tramp vessels asleep; to fulfill your every desire, come from the ends of the earth.”
“Those who know how to observe themselves and keep the memory of their impressions, those who knew, like Hoffmann, construct their spiritual barometer, have sometimes noted in the observatory of their thinking, beautiful seasons, happy days, delicious minutes. There are days when man wakes up with a young and vigorous genius. His eyelids barely unloaded sleep that sealed the outside world provides him with a strong relief, sharpness of edges, a wealth of wonderful colors. Moral world opens its vast prospects, full of new light. gratified Man this bliss, unfortunately rare and transient, feels both more artists and fairer more noble, to say all in a word. But there is more singular in this exceptional state of mind and senses, I can without exaggeration call heavenly, if I compare the heavy darkness of common and daily existence is that it was not created by any cause clearly visible and easy to define.”
