Charles baudelaire as flores do mal pdf

Ao outro diz: Vida e esplendor! Responde, libertino. E anda em meu sangue envenenado! Eu sou a faca e o talho atroz! Eu sou o rosto e a bofetada! II Conversa a dois, clara e sombria, Espelho que a alma em si procura! Esto memor! Eu falo Qualquer idioma em minha goela de metal. O dia vai, a noite vem; recordar-te-ei! Minha beleza! II Paris mudou! Penso no marinheiro esquecido numa ilha De Frascati defunto a Vestal namorada; Sacerdotisa e atriz Eu vos dou cada tarde o mais solene adeus! Viu-se um dia num baile um porte assim delgado?

Da sempiterna dor eternal alambique! O que importa o que veste, orna, pinta ou perfuma? Como posso pensar que te olhem com espanto? Do cais frio do Sena ao do Ganges inquieto, Salta e desmaia agora o rebanho mortal Ignorando a trombeta do anjo que, do teto, Soa, sinistra e aberta, um trabuco fatal. E que fresco vestido! Amo a tua beleza! Planava sobre a novidade Tudo ao olhar, nada aos ouvidos!

A sede atroz que me faz louco Quem a pudera amortecer? Ainda ela era a mais garrida, Embora bem fatigada! E Eu ainda a amava; eis por que Lhe disse: parte desta vida! Eis-me liberto e satisfeito! A liga, olho secreto, arde feito lanterna, Darda olhar de diamante e jade. Responde, morta! Mas eu adivinhava uma cena fatal! O homem singular! Tinha-se erguido o pano e eu esperava ainda. Era um escolho! III Oh viajantes do espanto! Queremos viajar sem vapor e sem vela! O que pudestes ver enfim?

Queres ficar, pois fica: Parte, se for preciso. Deixemos este cais! Ah, soltemos a vela! Para o novo encontrar no mais desconhecido! Ou te maldigo! Eu te amo mais quando a alegria Te foge ao rosto acabrunhado; Quando a alma tens em agonia, Quando o presente em ti desfia A hedionda nuvem do passado.

Eis o amor! Eis que acendeu, qual divino fanal, O Cachimbo da Paz. Foi movido pela necessidade de responder a essa pergunta que cheguei a estas Flores do mal.

E, nesse movimento, reencontrar a ingenuidade que permite a cada um ver-se, ouvir- se, tocar-se. Estudou filosofia e teologia na Universidade de Paris, sendo ordenado padre em fins de ou Nascimento de Jacques Aupick em Gravelines.

Claude-Alphonse seguiu a carreira de magistrado. Alphonse Borghers traduz The gold bug. O primeiro texto em prosa de Baudelaire. Baudelaire reside agora na rua da Provence, Dezembro: Courbet termina o retrato de Baudelaire Museu de Montpellier. Bry o velho. Julho: Amor por Marie Daubrun. Esse artigo foi recusado por Le pays. Ele pede dinheiro a Ancelle para mobiliar o apartamento, ainda em companhia de Jeanne Duval. Seu rompimento com ela jamais foi definitivo.

Maio-junho: Baudelaire retorna a Honfleur. O poeta volta ao Hotel de Dieppe. Com isso, esses editores adquirem o direito de substituir Baudelaire para recolher o dinheiro proveniente de suas obras. Baudelaire escreve a Swinburne para agradecer-lhe. Tarr and prof. Removem-no para Bruxelas. Visita de Ancelle. Banville e Asselineau pronunciam discursos. Ela se arrasta apoiada em muletas. Nouvelles fleurs du mal, Alphonse Lemerre, Paris, Amoenitates Belgicae epigramas , ed.

Blaizot, Lecampion, Paris, Chevrel, Paris, Correspondance, 2 vols. Des longues promenades, des tendresses perpetuelles! O texto fala por si. Je me souviens Aux yeux du souvenir que le monde est petit! Voltemos um pouco a Swedenborg. Je suis le soufflet et la joue! Je suis les membres et la roue, Et la victime et le bourreau! Le livre met les gens en fureur.

Le vice, horreur. Le style coulent, horreur. Ne me parlez plus jamais des diseurs de riens. Les descriptions y sont rares, et toujours significatives. E mais uma vez acertou. Tais expedientes, jamais utilizados de forma gratuita pelo poeta, conferem a seu verso uma maleabilidade e fluidez extremas. Teria ele, afinal, dado voz ao inexpresso? Ou ambas? E aqui, mais uma vez, a Queda desempenha o papel principal.

Sinon je te maudis! Nada de estranho. Je crie bravo! O ridicules troncs! E por viver ainda! Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres? O boucles! Por muito tempo! O fangeuse grandeur! XXV Porias o universo inteiro em teu bordel, Mulher impura!

Como um navio que amanhece 10 Mal desponta o vento, Minha alma em sonho se oferece Rumo ao firmamento. As pernas para cima, qual mulher lasciva, A transpirar miasmas e humores, Eis que as abria desleixada e repulsiva, O ventre prenhe de livores. O fedor era tal que sobre a relva escassa Chegaste quase a sucumbir.

E tudo isso ia e vinha, ao modo de uma vaga, Ou esguichava a borbulhar, Como se o corpo, a estremecer de forma vaga, Vivesse a se multiplicar. Do fundo abismo onde minha alma jaz sepulta. Ai de mim! Obscurcir las splendeur de tes froides prunelles. Como a nossa juventude, Querida! Mas as unhas e os dentes afiados Logo vingam a espada e a adaga falsa e rude.

Tu, todo o meu dever! Curvado sobre ti, rainha das amadas, Eu julgava aspirar o aroma de teu sangue. Sei a arte de evocar as horas mais ditosas. Comme lui, O Lune de ma vie! Se agora queres, todavia, Como um astro a emergir da penumbra que o acua, Pavonear-te no palco onde a Loucura atua, Pois bem! Punhal sutil em teu estojo esfria! Sutil e estranho encanto transfigura Em nosso agora a imagem do passado.

Et, bien que votre voix soit douce, taisez-vous! Taisez-vous, ignorante! Bouche au rire enfantin! Plus encor que la Vie, La Mort nous tient souvent par des liens subtils. Nada queiras saber, minha bela curiosa! Cala-te, tola! Son haleine fait la musique, Comme sa voix fait le parfum! Ela deslumbra como o Dia E como a Noite nos ampara. Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir. Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!

O sol se afoga em ondas que de sangue o tingem Mas nada disso vale o veneno que escorre De teu verde olhar perverso, Laguna onde minha alma se mira ao inverso E meu sonho logo acorre Para saciar-se nesse abismo em fel imerso. Hei de adorar a tua neve e os teus rigores? E como arrancarei do inverno em que me enterro Mais agudo prazer que os do gelo e do ferro?

Eis seu encanto mais secreto. Essa voz que se infiltra e afina 10 Em meu recesso mais umbroso Me enche qual verso numeroso E como um filtro me ilumina. Dans quel philtre, dans quel vin, dans quelle tisane, Noierons-nous ce vieil ennemi, Destructeur et gourmand comme la courtisane, Patient comme la fourmi?

Dans quel philtre? Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir? Pour qui? Para quem? II Amo em teu longo olhar a luz esverdeada, 20 Doce amiga, mas hoje amarga-me um pesar, E nem o teu amor, o lar, a alcova, nada Vale mais do que o sol raiando sobre o mar. La tombe attend; elle est avide! Tes hanches sont amoureuses De ton dos et de tes seins, Et tu ravis les coussins Par tes poses langoureuses.

Morena, tu me aniquilas 30 Com teu riso de acre efeito, E depois banhas-me o peito No luar de tuas pupilas. Telle la Sisina! Esto sertis implicata, O femina delicata Per quam solvuntur peccata! Sicut beneficum Lethe, Hauriam oscula de te, Quae imbuta es magnete. Quum vitiorum tempestas Turbabat omnes semitas, Apparuisti, Deitas, Velut stella salutaris In naufragiis amaris Suspendam cor tuis aris!

In fame mea taberna In nocte mea lucerna, Recte me semper guberna. Adde nunc vires viribus, Dulce balneum suavibus Unguentatum odoribus! A alma elevo a teus altares! Na minha fome, taverna, Na minha noite, lanterna, Sempre reta me governa. Meos circa lumbos mica, O castitatis lorica, Aqua tincta seraphica; Patera gemmis corusca, Panis salsus, mollis esca, Divinum vinum, Francisca!

La mer, la vaste mer, console nos labeurs! Emporte-moi, wagon! O mar, o vasto mar, nos purga os sofrimentos! Bem longe! Como os demais pela virtude, Em tua vida e juventude Quero reinar pelo pavor. Aimons-nous doucement. Je connais les engins de son vieil arsenal: Crime, horreur et folie! Amemo-nos em paz. O Amor, numa guarida, 10 Tenebroso, emboscado, entesa o arco fatal. Como a dos deuses, a pupila Lhes arde em fogo. Eles meditam.

O vers! Prefiro em vida dar aos corvos como ceia Os trapos que me pendem do esqueleto imundo. Bendito o sino de garganta vigorosa Que, apesar da velhice, alerta e bem-disposto, Fielmente emite sua nota religiosa, Como um velho soldado atento no seu posto. Car je cherche le vide, et le noir, et le nu! Te odeio, oceano! Conforma-te, minha alma, ao sono que te enluta. Esprit vaincu, fourbu! Le Printemps adorable a perdu son odeur! Vais levar-me, avalanche, em tua queda abrupta?

O que diz a um: Sepultura! Ao outro diz: Vida e esplendor! Elle est dans ma voix, la criarde! E anda em meu sangue envenenado! Je suis la plaie et le couteau! Eu sou o rosto e a bofetada! II Conversa a dois, clara e sombria, Espelho que a alma em si procura! Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la Seconde Chuchote: Souviens-toi!

Esto memor! La gouffre a toujours soif; la clepsydre se vide. Eu falo Qualquer idioma em minha goela de metal. O dia vai, a noite vem; recordar-te-ei!

Te faire don. Jamais te dar. Behold now the Fall of ideas I have reached, And the shovel and rake one must therefore resume, In collecting the turf, inundated and breached, Where the waters dug trenches as deep as a tomb. And yet these new blossoms, for which I craved, Will they find in this earth—like a shore that is laved— The mystical fuel which vigour imparts? Oh misery! This heavy burden to uplift, O Sysiphus, thy pluck is required!

And even though the heart aspired, Art is long and Time is swift. Afar from sepulchres renowned, To a graveyard, quite apart, Like a broken drum, my heart, Beats the funeral marches' sound.

Many a buried jewel sleeps In the long-forgotten deeps, Far from mattock and from sound; Many a flower wafts aloft Its perfumes, like a secret soft, Within the solitudes, profound. A long while I dwelt beneath vast porticoes, While the ocean-suns bathed with a thousand fires, And which with their great and majestic spires, At eventide looked like basaltic grottoes. The billows, in rolling depictured the skies, And mingled, in solemn and mystical strain, The all-mighteous chords of their luscious refrain With the sun-set's colours reflexed in mine eyes.

It is there that I lived in exalted calm, In the midst of the azure, the splendour, the waves, While pregnant with perfumes, naked slaves Refreshed my forehead with branches of palm, Whose gentle and only care was to know The secret that caused me to languish so.

Free man! The sea is thy mirror, thou regardest thy soul In its mighteous waves that unendingly roll, And thy spirit is yet not a chasm less drear. Thou delight'st to plunge deep in thine image down; Thou tak'st it with eyes and with arms in embrace, And at times thine own inward voice would'st efface With the sound of its savage ungovernable moan. You are both of you, sombre, secretive and deep: Oh mortal, thy depths are foraye unexplored, Oh sea—no one knoweth thy dazzling hoard, You both are so jealous your secrets to keep!

And endless ages have wandered by, Yet still without pity or mercy you fight, So mighty in plunder and death your delight: Oh wrestlers! I am lovely, O mortals, like a dream of stone, And my bosom, where each one gets bruised in turn, To inspire the love of a poet is prone, Like matter eternally silent and stern. As an unfathomed sphinx, enthroned by the Nile, My heart a swan's whiteness with granite combines, And I hate every movement, displacing the lines, And never I weep and never I smile.

The poets in front of mine attitudes fine Which the proudest of monuments seem to implant , To studies profound all their moments assign, For I have all these docile swains to enchant— Two mirrors, which Beauty in all things ignite: Mine eyes, my large eyes, of eternal Light! It could ne'er be those beauties of ivory vignettes; The varied display of a worthless age, Nor puppet-like figures with castonets, That ever an heart like mine could engage.

I leave to Gavarni, that poet of chlorosis, His hospital-beauties in troups that whirl, For I cannot discover amid his pale roses A flower to resemble my scarlet ideal. Since, what for this fathomless heart I require Is—Lady Macbeth you! I should have loved—erewhile when Heaven conceived Each day, some child abnormal and obscene, Beside a maiden giantess to have lived, Like a luxurious cat at the feet of a queen; To see her body flowering with her soul, And grow, unchained, in awe-inspiring art, Within the mists across her eyes that stole To divine the fires entombed within her heart.

And oft to scramble o'er her mighty limbs, And climb the slopes of her enormous knees, Or in summer when the scorching sunlight streams Across the country, to recline at ease, And slumber in the shadow of her breast Like an hamlet 'neath the mountain-crest.

O Beauty! Within thy glance, so diabolic and divine, Confusedly both wickedness and goodness dwell, And hence one might compare thee unto sparkling wine. Thy look containeth both the dawn and sunset stars, Thy perfumes, as upon a sultry night exhale, Thy kiss a philter, and thy mouth a Grecian vase, That renders heroes cowardly and infants hale.

Yea, art thou from the planets, or the fiery womb? The demon follows in thy train, with magic fraught, Thou scatter'st seeds haphazardly of joy and doom, Thou govern'st everything, but answer'st unto nought. O Loveliness! The blinded, fluttering moth towards the candle flies, Then frizzles, falls, and falters—"Blessings unto thee"— The panting swain that o'er his beauteous mistress sighs, Seems like the Sick, that stroke their gravestones lovingly. What matter, if thou comest from the Heavens or Hell, O Beauty, frightful ghoul, ingenuous and obscure!

So long thine eyes, thy smile, to me the way can tell Towards that Infinite I love, but never saw. From God or Satan? Angel, Mermaid, Proserpine?

What matter if thou makest—blithe, voluptuous sprite— With rhythms, perfumes, visions—O mine only queen! When, with closed eyes, on a hot afternoon, The scent of thine ardent breast I inhale, Celestial vistas my spirit assail; Caressed by the flames of an endless sun.

A langorous island, where Nature abounds With exotic trees and luscious fruit; And with men whose bodies are slim and astute, And with women whose frankness delights and astounds. By thy perfume enticed to this region remote, A port I see, laden with mast and with boat, Still wearied and torn by the distant brine; While the tamarisk-odours that dreamily throng The air, round my slumberous senses intwine, And mix, in my soul, with the mariners' song.

O fleece, that foams down unto the shoulders bare! O curls, O scents which lovely languidness exhale! The shores of Africa, and Asia's burning skies, A world forgotten, distant, nearly dead and spent, Within thy depths, O aromatic forest! There I will hasten, where the trees and humankind With languor lull beside the hot and silent sea; Strong tresses bear me, be to me the waves and wind! Within thy fragrance lies a dazzling dream confined Of sails and masts and flames—O lake of ebony!

A loudly echoing harbour, where my soul may hold To quaff, the silver cup of colours, scents and sounds, Wherein the vessels glide upon a sea of gold, And stretch their mighty arms, the glory to enfold Of virgin skies, where never-ending heat abounds. I'll plunge my brow, enamoured with voluptuousness Within this darkling ocean of infinitude, Until my subtle spirit, which thy waves caress, Shall find you once again, O fertile weariness; Unending lullabye of perfumed lassitude! Ye tresses blue—recess of strange and sombre shades, Ye make the azure of the starry Realm immense; Upon the downy beeches, by your curls' cascades, Among your mingling fragrances, my spirit wades To cull the musk and cocoa-nut and lotus scents.

Long—foraye—my hand, within thy heavy mane, Shall scatter rubies, pearls, sapphires eternally, And thus my soul's desire for thee shall never wane; For art not thou the oasis where I dream and drain With draughts profound, the golden wine of memory?

With pearly robes that wave within the wind, Even when she walks, she seems to dance, Like swaying serpents round those wands entwined Which fakirs ware in rhythmic elegance. So like the desert's Blue, and the sands remote, Both, deaf to mortal suffering and to strife, Or like the sea-weeds 'neath the waves that float, Indifferently she moulds her budding life. Her polished eyes are made of minerals bright, And in her mien, symbolical and cold, Wherein an angel mingles with a sphinx of old, Where all is gold, and steel, and gems, and light, There shines, just like a useless star eternally, The sterile woman's frigid majesty.

Ah, when thou shalt slumber, my darkling love, Beneath a black marble-made statuette, And when thou'lt have nought for thy house or alcove, But a cavernous den and a damp oubliette. When the tomb-stone, oppressing thy timorous breast, And thy hips drooping sweetly with listless decay, The pulse and desires of mine heart shall arrest, And thy feet from pursuing their adventurous way, Then the grave, that dark friend of my limitless dreams For the grave ever readeth the poet aright , Amid those long nights, which no slumber redeems 'Twill query—"What use to thee, incomplete spright That thou ne'er hast unfathomed the tears of the dead"?

Oh, Mother of Memories! Mistress of Mistresses! Oh, thou all my pleasures, oh, thou all my prayers! Can'st thou remember those luscious caresses, The charm of the hearth and the sweet evening airs? Oh, Mother, of Memories, Mistress of Mistresses! Those evenings illumed by the glow of the coal, And those roseate nights with their vaporous wings, How calm was thy breast and how good was thy soul, 'Twas then we uttered imperishable things, Those evenings illumed by the glow of the coal.

How lovely the suns on those hot, autumn nights! How vast were the heavens! How lovely the sun on those hot, autumn nights!

The shadows of night-time grew dense like a pall, And deep through the darkness thine eyes I divined, And I drank of thy breath—oh sweetness, oh gall, And thy feet in my brotherly hands reclined, The shadows of Night-time grew dense like a pall.

I know how to call forth those moments so dear, And to live my Past—laid on thy knees—once more, For where should I seek for thy beauties but here In thy langorous heart and thy body so pure?

I know how to call forth those moments so dear. Those perfumes, those infinite kisses and sighs, Are they born in some gulf to our plummets denied? Like rejuvenate suns that mount up to the skies, That first have been cleansed in the depths of the tide; Oh, perfumes!

The sun is enveloped in crape! I cherish thee thus! But if 'tis thy mood, Like a star that from out its penumbra appears, To float in the regions where madness careers, Fair dagger! Yea, light up thine eyes at the Fire of Renown!

Or kindle desire by the looks of some clown! Thine All is my joy, whether dull or aflame! Just be what thou wilt, black night, dawn divine, There is not a nerve in my trembling frame But cries, "I adore thee, Beelzebub mine! And yet although your voice is sweet, be still! Be still, O soul, with rapture ever rife! O mouth, with the childish smile! Far more than Life, The subtle bonds of Death around us twine. Let—let my heart, the wine of falsehood drink, And dream-like, deep within your fair eyes sink, And in the shade of thy lashes long recline!

The Demon, in my lofty vault, This morning came to visit me, And striving me to find at fault, He said, "Fain would I know of thee; "Among the many beauteous things, —All which her subtle grace proclaim— Among the dark and rosy things, Which go to make her charming frame, "Which is the sweetest unto thee"? My soul! When all transports me with delight, If aught deludes I can not know, She either lulls one like the Night, Or dazzles like the Morning-glow.

That harmony is too divine, Which governs all her body fair, For powerless mortals to define In notes the many concords there. O mystic metamorphosis Of all my senses blent in one! Her voice a beauteous perfume is, Her breath makes music, chaste and wan. What sayest thou, to-night, poor soul so drear, What sayest—heart erewhile engulfed in gloom, To the very lovely, very chaste, and very dear, Whose god-like look hath made thee to re-bloom?