July 11, 2007
Unhappy perhaps the man, but happy the artist shattered by desire!
I burn to paint her who appeared to me so rarely and who fled so quickly, like a beautiful lamented thing left by the traveler swept into the night. She disappeared so long ago!
She is beautiful, and more than beautiful; she is surprising. Black abounds in her, and everything she inspires is nocturnal and deep. Her eyes are two caves dimly glittering with mystery, and her gaze illumines like lightning: an explosion in the darkness.
I might compare her to a black sun, if you could imagine a black star pouring forth light and happiness. But she reminds you more readily of the moon, which probably branded her with her fearsome influence. Not the white moon of romance, which resembles a frigid bride, but the sinister and intoxicating moon, suspended deep within a stormy night and jostled by fleeing clouds. Not the peaceful and discreet moon attending upon the sleep of pure people, but the moon ripped from the sky, defeated and rebellious, which the Witches of Thessaly fiercely compel to dance on the terrified grass!
A stubborn will and the love of prey dwell on her little brow. However, below her disquieting face, where mobile nostrils inhale the unknown and the impossible, with inexpressible grace, there bursts the laughter of a large mouth, red and white, and delicious, calling to mind the miracle of a magnificent flower budding in volcanic ground.
Some women inspire the need to defeat them and take full pleasure from them; but this one arouses the desire to die slowly under her gaze.
From "Le Spleen de Paris" by Charles Baudelaire
Translated by Edward Kaplan
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