In the 19th century, with the rise of French industrial civilization and the accelerated modernization of cities, people's lives underwent unprecedented changes. For poetry creators, this also means that the idyllic lyrical experience of the past is no longer applicable, and how to write life and express emotions in the era of advanced capitalism has become a completely new problem.
It was in this context that Charles Baudelaire's classic poem "The Flower of Evil" came into being. The work not only deeply depicts the intricacies and strangeness of Paris, but also subverts people's aesthetic imagination in the way of showing the "sick and evil beauty" of the city. At the same time, Baudelaire began to publish prose poems in various magazines. The so-called prose poetry can be understood as both poetic prose and poetry written in prose, and in this style, "poetry" and "literature" penetrate each other, forming a unique balance. After Baudelaire's death, the fifty prose poems he published during his lifetime were published according to his own wishes, and named "The Melancholy of Paris".
From a formal point of view, "The Melancholy of Paris" abandons the branches and sections in traditional poetry, and the titles in the book are different in length, but they include a variety of writing methods such as dialogue, depiction, and narration, which is quite prose. Thematically, this collection of prose poems is similar to The Flower of Evil, both focusing on the landscape of the big city and the metaphors of everyday life, trying to present the reader with "a more abstract modern life." In Baudelaire's view, beauty exists not only in romantic, harmonious, positive things, but also in ugly, decadent and corrupt realities. It can be said that "The Melancholy of Paris" is another version of "The Flower of Evil", and it is more free, delicate and spicy. As Baudelaire puts it, the work is "musical without rhythm and rhythm, quite flexible, quite blunt, enough to adapt to the passionate movement of the soul, the dreamy ups and downs, and the convulsions of consciousness." ”
During baudelaire's birthday, Interface Culture (ID: booksandfun), authorized by the Commercial Press, excerpted some prose poems from last year's reprint of "The Melancholy of Paris" to review with readers the 19th-century Paris of Baudelaire. It is worth noting that although the book depicts what the poet saw and heard in Paris, there are few places or landmarks that clearly point to Paris, which means that the "melancholy of Paris" is also, in a sense, "the melancholy of any modern metropolis". These profound observations and reflections are still not outdated a hundred years later.
<h3>Each has his monster</h3>
Under the vast, gray sky, on the vast, dusty plains, without roads, without meadows, without thistles, without nettles, I met several people, bending forward.
Each of them carried a gigantic monster, as heavy as a bag of flour, or as a bag of coal, or as the equipment of a Roman infantryman. But this monster was not a dead weight; on the contrary, it pressed against man with elastic and powerful muscles; hooked the chest of the mount with its two huge claws; and its gigantic head pressed against man's forehead, like the terrible helmet worn by the samurai in ancient times to intimidate the enemy.
I asked one of them where they were going. He replied to me that he knew nothing, that he, the others, knew nothing; but it was clear that they were going somewhere, for they were propelled by an uncontrollable desire to walk.
One curious thing to note is that none of the walkers expressed anger at the ferocious beast hanging from its neck and lying on its back; it could even be said that they seemed to think that the monster was a part of themselves. These weary and serious faces showed no despair; under this gloomy firmament, their feet sank into the dust of the earth as melancholy as the sky, and walked with the ineffectual look of a man destined to hope forever.
The procession of walkers passed by me and plunged into the sky, the circular surface of the earth obscuring the curious eyes of the people.
For a while I had been trying to understand this mystery; but soon an irresistible indifference took hold of me, and I was overwhelmed with a heavy weight, as was not the case with those who carried the overweight monsters.
<h3>Madman and Venus</h3>
What a wonderful day! The wide park was stunned under the sun's scorching eyes, like youth under the control of the god of love. The universal ecstasy of things is expressed silently, and even the flowing water seems to be asleep. In stark contrast to human festivals, this is a quiet carnival.
It seemed that more and more intense light made everything flicker, more and more brilliant; the flowers were colorful, eager to compete with the blue sky, and the warmth made the fragrance visible, making it like smoke flying towards the stars.
But, in the midst of this enjoyment of all things, I caught a glimpse of a sad man.
Under a huge statue of Venus, a man-made madman, a voluntary clown, is in his job of making fun of the kings who are caught up in remorse and boredom. Dressed in a glittering and ridiculous dress, wearing horns and bells, he curled up on a statue seat and raised a pair of tearful eyes to look at the eternal goddess.
His eyes said, "I am the most despicable and lonely of human beings, losing love and friendship, not even the most imperfect animals." However, like all people, I am born to understand and feel eternal beauty! Goddess, pity me for my sorrows and mania! ”
But the ruthless Venus looked into the distance with her marble eyes and didn't know anything.
<h3>Toys for the poor</h3>
I want to talk about what innocent entertainment is all about. Guiltless entertainment is so little!
When you're out in the morning and determined to wander the streets, fill your pockets with worthless little toys: flat puppets pulled by a thread, blacksmiths tapping on anvils, knights and horses with sentinel tails, along bars, under trees, and give them to the unknown and impoverished children you meet. You'll see their eyes wide open. They began to dare not take it; they doubted their happiness. They will then clutch the gift with their hands and then run away, just as cats flee far away from you to eat the food you give them, because they have learned not to trust people.
Just off the main road, in the huge garden, there is a beautiful white castle, bathed in the sun, where a handsome and bright child stands, dressed in country clothes, beautiful.
Luxury, carefreeness and the habit of seeing wealth make these children so beautiful that one would think that they and the children of the well-off and the poor were made of different materials.
Beside the child, on the grass, lay a palatial rag doll, painted and gilded, wearing a crimson skirt and a hat decorated with feathers and glass beads. However, the child ignored his favorite toy and looked to the other side:
On the other side of the fence, beside the road, between tribulus and nettle, there was also a child, dirty, weak, with a soot-colored face, a child of a pariah, from which the impartial gaze could find a beauty, if he could wash away the disgusting dirt of poverty from him like an expert who had realized an ideal painting from the paint on a carriage maker.
Through the symbolic railings separating the two worlds, the main road and the castle, the poor boy shows his toy to the rich child, who stares at it like a strange, unknown thing. The little dirty child who was teasing, playing, and shaking in a cage turned out to be a live mouse! His parents, perhaps out of saving, removed the toy from their lives.
The two children smiled at each other like brothers, revealing "identically white" teeth.
<h3>port</h3>
For a soul tired of the struggles of life, the port is a charming abode. The vastness of the sky, the ever-changing structure of the clouds, the ever-changing colors of the sea, the extinguishing of the beacon lights, all of this is a prism, especially suitable for pleasing the eyes and making them never tire. The slender hull, the intricate sail cables, and the waves make it sway harmoniously, maintaining a rhythm and interest in beauty in the human heart. In particular, for a man who has neither curiosity nor ambition, lying on a platform or leaning over a breakwater and watching those people go from place to place, there is a mysterious and noble pleasure, some gone, some back, and they still have the strength to desire, and want to travel or get rich.
<h3>Indulge</h3>
Should be intoxicated forever. That's all there is to it; that's the only problem. In order not to feel the terrible heaviness of time, it breaks your shoulders and bends you to the ground, and you should keep indulging.
Drunk on what? Wine, poetry, or virtue, casual. But be intoxicated.
If sometimes on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of a ravine, in the melancholy loneliness of your room, you wake up, and your drunkenness diminishes or disappears, then you go and ask the wind, ask the waves, ask the stars, ask the birds, ask the bells, ask all the things that escape, ask all the groans, ask all the things that roll, ask all the things that sing, ask all the things that talk, ask what time it is; the wind, the waves, the stars, the birds, the bells will answer you: "It's time to get drunk!" In order not to be a slave to the martyrdom of time, indulge; keep intoxicating! Drunk in fine wine, poetry, or virtue, casually. ”
The prose poems in this article are selected from the book "The Melancholy of Paris" and are published with the permission of the publishing house.
……………………
| ᐕ)⁾⁾ For more exciting content and interactive sharing, please pay attention to the WeChat public account "Interface Culture" (ID: BooksAndFun) and Interface Culture Sina Weibo.