Les Fleurs du Mal by Charles Baudelaire

Les Fleurs du Mal

Presents the first American translation of the complete text of Baudelaire's 1857 masterwork and includes the complete original French texts for easy comparison....

Title:Les Fleurs du Mal
Author:
Rating:
ISBN:0879234628
Edition Language:English
Number of Pages:365 pages

Les Fleurs du Mal Reviews

  • Kelly

    After reading Baudelaire, I suddenly find myself wanting to smoke cigarettes and say very cynical things while donning a trendy haircut. Plus, if I didn't read Baudelaire, how could I possibly carry on conversations with pretentious art students?

    In all seriousness, though, I wish my French was better, so that I could read it in its intended language. I'm sure it looses something in the translation... but it's still great stuff nonetheless.

    And with a title like "Flowers of Evil," how can you go

    After reading Baudelaire, I suddenly find myself wanting to smoke cigarettes and say very cynical things while donning a trendy haircut. Plus, if I didn't read Baudelaire, how could I possibly carry on conversations with pretentious art students?

    In all seriousness, though, I wish my French was better, so that I could read it in its intended language. I'm sure it looses something in the translation... but it's still great stuff nonetheless.

    And with a title like "Flowers of Evil," how can you go wrong?

  • Ahmad Sharabiani

    Les Fleurs du mal = The Flowers of Evil, Charles Baudelaire

    عنوانها: قطعه هایی از گلهای رنج؛ گلهای رنج گزینه اشعار شارل بودلر؛ گلهای دوزخی؛ شاعر: شارل بودلر؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش: اول اکتبر سال 2001 میلادی

    عنوان: قطعه هایی از گلهای رنج؛ شاعر: شارل بودلر؛ برگردان: مرتصی شمس؛ تهران، گوتنبرگ، 1335، در 144 ص؛

    عنوان: گلهای رنج گزینه اشعار شارل بودلر؛ شاعر: شارل بودلر؛ برگردان: محمدرضا پارسایار؛ تهران، انتشارات هرمس؛ 1380؛ در دوازده و 126 ص؛ دو زبانه؛ چاپ بعدی 1384؛ شابک: 9647100388؛ چاپ سوم 1391؛ چاپ چها

    Les Fleurs du mal = The Flowers of Evil, Charles Baudelaire

    عنوانها: قطعه هایی از گلهای رنج؛ گل‌های رنج گزینه اشعار شارل بودلر؛ گلهای دوزخی؛ شاعر: شارل بودلر؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش: اول اکتبر سال 2001 میلادی

    عنوان: قطعه هایی از گلهای رنج؛ شاعر: شارل بودلر؛ برگردان: مرتصی شمس؛ تهران، گوتنبرگ، 1335، در 144 ص؛

    عنوان: گل‌های رنج گزینه اشعار شارل بودلر؛ شاعر: شارل بودلر؛ برگردان: محمدرضا پارسایار؛ تهران، انتشارات هرمس؛ 1380؛ در دوازده و 126 ص؛ دو زبانه؛ چاپ بعدی 1384؛ شابک: 9647100388؛ چاپ سوم 1391؛ چاپ چهارم 1393؛ شابک: 9789647100380؛ موضوع: شعر شاعران فرانسوی - قرن 19 م

    عنوان: گلهای دوزخی؛ مترجم: نیما زاغیان؛ تهران، نگاه، 1393؛ در 455 ص؛ شابک: 9786003760332؛

    گل‌های رنج یا گل‌های بدی مجموعه شعری از شارل بودلر شاعر قرن نوزدهم فرانسه است. این کتاب مهم‌ترین اثر شاعر نیز محسوب می‌شود در هنگام انتشارش به سال 1840 میلادی، سر و صدای بسیاری به پا کرد، و حتیٰ باعث شد تعدادی از شعرها سانسور شود. در این اثر بودلر به دنبال کشف زیبایی از درون زشتی است؛ او مبانی زیبایی‌ شناسی تازه ای را پایه‌ ریزی می‌کند؛ کتاب توسط: جنابان مرتضی شمس؛ محمدرضا پارسایار؛ و نیما زاغیان؛ به زبان فارسی ترجمه شده است

    سعادتمند کسی ست که اندیشه ی او همچون چکاوکی

    سحرگاهان به سوی آسمانها میشتابد

    و بالهای خویش را بر روی زندگی میگشاید

    و زبان گلها را و هرآنچه را گنگ است، درمییابد

    ا. شربیانی

  • MJ Nicholls

    Superlative. Thrilling. Sensual. Naughty. Macabre. Joyous. Liberating. Essential. Poetry for the reluctant poetry reader, i.e. me. (A little distracted here listening to Belle & Sebastian’s

    which I finally acquired. Hence the choppiness). Great translation. Don’t care about reading in the original or what is lost in translation. Each translation adds to or improves the previous and this one reads pretty swell to me. Where do I go from here? Verlaine? Rimbaud? Mallarmé? Pam A

    Superlative. Thrilling. Sensual. Naughty. Macabre. Joyous. Liberating. Essential. Poetry for the reluctant poetry reader, i.e. me. (A little distracted here listening to Belle & Sebastian’s

    which I finally acquired. Hence the choppiness). Great translation. Don’t care about reading in the original or what is lost in translation. Each translation adds to or improves the previous and this one reads pretty swell to me. Where do I go from here? Verlaine? Rimbaud? Mallarmé? Pam Ayres? (No one’s on GR at the weekends anyway, I don’t have to bust too many vessels being erudite). Read this shit now.

  • Matt

    Here's a recent essay on Baudelaire from the trusty, always-interesting online mag The Millions:

    So as to try to follow that, I've got to disclose a bit of an embarrassment. Baudelaire was, for me, the kind of poet only certain kinds of people liked. By this I don't mean Francophiles or the merely pretentious but there was something that set a devotee of C.B. apart from your average earnest, quavering, verbose, nervous poet or poetry fanboy.

    It's hard to

    Here's a recent essay on Baudelaire from the trusty, always-interesting online mag The Millions:

    So as to try to follow that, I've got to disclose a bit of an embarrassment. Baudelaire was, for me, the kind of poet only certain kinds of people liked. By this I don't mean Francophiles or the merely pretentious but there was something that set a devotee of C.B. apart from your average earnest, quavering, verbose, nervous poet or poetry fanboy.

    It's hard to put it into words- maybe you know it when you see it- but there was something sort of...elegant...and...removed...and...

    about somebody who felt like carting around this haunted menagerie everywhere they went, the way you just do with your favorite poets...

    I'm no stranger to French poetry or literary bleakness, believe you me, but there was always something slightly creepy about Baudelaire, I could never put my finger on why I recoiled from it and what this meant.

    There's the languid, morbid Romanticism, fond of grand statements and magnificent imagery; the surgically precise mastery of rhyme and meter (I don't speak more than toddler's French but you can pretty much get a good sense of this stuff with the original text facing the English translations); the utterly bleak yet exotic, nigh- perfumed insights, metaphoric associations and twists of phrase; the poet's own (and those of his poetic subjects) addictions and rhapsodies; the deep, indescribable longings muddled with spleen; the detestation of smug comfort and propriety with the love of the 'perverse', the 'occult' and the melodious rumination mixed with ominous, pervading

    ...

    Well, call me a hardheaded New England Pragmatist, but there was something sort of suspiciously sickly about this guy. I mean, here I am, 11:22pm, feasting on my pauper's pleasures of potato salad, a rather stale corn muffin and a can of Sprite. I'm very ok with this. Not necessarily dying to be anywhere else or doing much else. I'm content, in my clean, well-lighted place down the street from the apt. I mean, haunted wonderlands are all well and good but in the words of Peter Griffin, SOMEBODY THROW A FREAKING PIE!

    My oldest friend, a fine poet and a dedicated teacher and a loving husband and father, just loved this stuff when we were growing up. Still does, in fact. It inspired him. I never quite got it- I mean, there's plenty to take from the poems AS poems but really, where does one relate?

    I wasn't outraged by Baudelaire, I was given the willies. I was just pretty definitively turned-off by an elaborately detailed, mockingly erotic poem about finding a maggot-teeming corpse, spreadeagled, in the middle of a spring stroll with your lover...I get it, I get it, but I'm gonna start slowly backing away now, ok?...

    I didn't get it, and I didn't even really want to.

    Now that's totally changed. I don't quite know why.

    I think it's got something to do with reading Walter Benjamin's interesting take on Baudelaire's style and literary achievement on a bus on the way to visit said friend. Nothing I like better than a fine and appreciative literary assessment. And I really love it when someone's insights turn my own around...

    So that planted the seed, as did time and experience.

    I'm not the same person I was when I first encountered poetry, not to mention life itself, and my tastes haven't changed in the sense of the old favorites, the lodestars, but they've definitely widened and evolved and been enriched and (I think) deepened.

    I think I'm aware of ironies more than I ever was, and unfulfillment, loss, dead air and lights that turn off. I've been dealing with a long string of anguish, disappointment, despair, confusion and frustration. Time has worn away some of the gilding from the world, and this is what some like to call 'experience'. Ok, well, sure, but so what?

    Well, Baudelaire's one of the so-whats. I never understood what his kind of visionary poetics really meant, what it did and where it brought the craft of poetry and the interested, open-minded reader.

    I think in some ways this is the kind of poetry that you need to grow into. Rimbaud works just fine when you're pissed off and rebellious and Promethean and you're 16, but he was a genius and his work survives real scrutiny and lasts after the humidity of adolescence cools off...

    Baudelaire (a poet Rimbaud admired, btw, no mean feat in and of itself) requires a little more out of you to really start to absorb, I've found. Everybody knows by now that he was into hashish and absinthe and that he had plenty of torrid affairs and that he blew through most of his inheritance on the finest linens and dandied it up something fierce...

    He also had quite the lover/mistress/muse/femme fatale, as The Daily Beast makes clear:

    What I think I missed out on initially was the old soul that shifts and speaks within these tortured, skeptical, vivid, tastefully arranged and somehow gruesomely challenging poems.

    Baudelaire isn't interested in pissing off the stuffy, conventional reading public because he's a spoiled, creepy, brat it's because he has a vision of life (his own, his city's, etc) that just couldn't come across in any other guise.

    I'm making an ass of myself now, as per usual, so I'm going to stop bumbling down the explication road and just quote this poem in full. I'm not an expert or anything, but I definitely think that this poem is essential:

    I was reading this at work, looking out through the big windows and watching cold night full of pissing rain trembling in the puddles on the corner of the opposite side of the street, sky all black, stained yellow streetlights, city spaces, melancholic, churning...

    I think I get it now.

    Sometimes you have to pick the flowers yourself.

  • Lizzy

    I read

    many years back, but it is still within me. Just a few words about this beautiful, sometimes nightmarish, masterpiece. What do you expect to feel when reading

    ? Nothing, I expect, falsely innocent, but superior free-flowing dream sequences of surrealism. I loved to read of prophetic dreams with occasional moments of grace, where the fallen world seems to transform itself into an eternally beautiful moment. As always with poetry we have our preferences,

    I read

    many years back, but it is still within me. Just a few words about this beautiful, sometimes nightmarish, masterpiece. What do you expect to feel when reading

    ? Nothing, I expect, falsely innocent, but superior free-flowing dream sequences of surrealism. I loved to read of prophetic dreams with occasional moments of grace, where the fallen world seems to transform itself into an eternally beautiful moment. As always with poetry we have our preferences, those that touches us deeper. I am no poet, so I have to satisfy myself to tell you that in its better moments for me it is simply splendid.

    Just a taste:

    Above the ponds, the rills and the dells,

    The mountains and woods, the clouds and the seas,

    Beyond the sun and the galaxies,

    Beyond the confines of the starry shells,

    O my mind, you proceed with agility,

    And as a good swimmer finds joy in the tide,

    You gaily traverse the heavens vast and wide

    With an indescribable and male felicity.

    Fly away beyond earth’s morbid miasmas;

    Purge yourself in the upper atmosphere,

    And drink up, divine liqueur so clear,

    The pure fire suffusing the vast cosmos.

    Behind the worry and vast chagrin

    That weigh on our days as gloomy as night,

    Happy is he who in vigorous flight

    Can depart for the fields bright and serene;

    He whose thoughts, like uncaged birds,

    Soar skyward each morning in liberty,

    —Who floats above life, and grasps effortlessly

    The language of flowers and things without words!

    Au-dessus des étangs, au-dessus des vallées,

    Des montagnes, des bois, des nuages, des mers,

    Par delà le soleil, par delà les éthers,

    Par delà les confins des sphères étoilées,

    Mon esprit, tu te meus avec agilité,

    Et, comme un bon nageur qui se pâme dans l’onde,

    Tu sillonnes gaiement l’immensité profonde

    Avec une indicible et mâle volupté.  

    Envole-toi bien loin de ces miasmes morbides;

    Va te purifier dans l’air supérieur,

    Et bois, comme une pure et divine liqueur,

    Le feu clair qui remplit les espaces limpides.

    Derrière les ennuis et les vastes chagrins

    Qui chargent de leur poids l’existence brumeuse,

    Heureux celui qui peut d’une aile vigoureuse

    S’élancer vers les champs lumineux et sereins;

    Celui dont les pensers, comme des alouettes,

    Vers les cieux le matin prennent un libre essor,

    —Qui plane sur la vie, et comprend sans effort

    Le langage des fleurs et des choses muettes!


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