I'm a great fan of Baudelaire and his work, and I guess I was doubling up a little when I purchased this book to read, having quite a few works already of his including the squibbed Intimate Journals which reveals some of Baudelaire's more finer observations - However, I have not read in its entirety "Flowers of Evil", I found the selected prose and verse to be ... 'fruitful idleness' which is as dedicated a review I can offer it, and I use that phrase of course because it is one of Baudelaire's phrases and perhaps his most stubborn demon. My favourite pieces, LESBOS and EPIGRAPH FOR A CONDEMNED BOOK, have such rich expressions such as "Throw away this saturnine, Orgiastic and melancholy book".

I enjoyed this read as a taste of further Baudelaire immersions ... aside from Intimate Journals, Paris Spleen and Twenty Prose Poems. ( )

“The Flowers of Evil” (1857) is noted in the Forward of this edition to be an interesting contrast to Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” (1855); whereas Whitman is light, optimistic, and in an enlightened state of love with life, Baudelaire is tormented, pessimistic, and wrapped up in passions. I picture Whitman barefoot under a tree on a sunny day, marveling at the world, while Baudelaire is in a seedy room in the Latin Quarter of Paris, having an evening of debauchery with Sarah, his mistress and a prostitute. Of course Whitman had his fair share of debauchery but it doesn’t color the spirit of his poetry as it does with Baudelaire. In this edition the illustrations are great and add to a feeling of darkness and “edge”; I also like it for having the original French on the pages opposite to the translations.

Quotes:
On beauty:
“- Many a gem lies buried deep,
In darkness, overlooked, asleep,
Far from the pick, and probe, alone.

Many a flower, alas, was meant
To spread the fragrance of its scent
In secret solitude, unknown.”

On breaking up:
“Like drunkard to his gin and wine,
Like hardened gambler to his dice,
Like carrion swill to worms and lice,
- Damn you! Be damned, vile mistress mine!”

On love:
“What will you say, once withered heart of mine;
What will you say tonight, poor soul forlorn,
To her - all sweetness, light - whose glance divine
Suddenly bloomed you back to life, reborn?”

On memories:
“I still recall our little house, out there
Beyond the town, white-painted, with its air
Of calm; and in the patch of greenery,
Trying to hide their plaster nudity,
Pomona and an aging Venus; and,
Streaming, the setting sun, haughty and grand,
Rays breaking on our window, like an eye,
Peering upon us from a curious sky,
And that, flickering taper-like, would cast
Its glint on many a silent, long repast;
On frugal table, set without a frill;
On curtains woven of the plainest twill.”

On perseverance:
“Happy the man - despite the frets, despite
The woes that smother life's dim murkiness -
Who, strong of purpose, flies high, nonetheless,
Off to the calm and peaceful fields of light;

Whose thoughts, in morning flight on lark-like wings,
Rise to the heavens, above the fray, swept free;
- Who understands, aloft, effortlessly,
The speed of flowers and of all silent things!”

On sex:
“When, on our late, hot summer afternoons,
Eyes closed, I breathe your breast's warm, heady scent,
I see a sun, fixed in the firmament,
Shining on dazzling shores: strand, rolling dunes;

One of those lazy, nature-gifted isles,
With luscious fruits, trees strange of leaf and limb,
Men vigorous of body, lithe and slim,
Women with artless glance that awes, beguiles.

Lured by your scent, led on to charming clime,
I come upon a port, all mast and sail,
Battered and buffeted by tide and time;

And all the while green tamarinds exhale
Perfumes that fill my nostrils and my soul,
Blending with sounds of sailors' barcarole.” ( )

Too many words. ( )

Really striking illustrations. My French is certainly not good enough to judge the "accuracy" of the translations, but they're elegantly poetic.