274 Baudelaire and the Flowers of Evil

The History of Literature

Jacke Wilson

History, Books, Arts

4.6 • 1.2K Ratings

🗓️ 15 October 2020

⏱️ 59 minutes

🔗️ Recording | iTunes | RSS

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Summary

He was "the king of poets," said Rimbaud, "a true God." T. S. Eliot called him a deformed Dante and said, “I am an English poet of American origin who learnt his art under the aegis of Baudelaire and the Baudelairian lineage of poets.” In this episode, Jacke takes a look at Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867), his masterwork Les Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Evil), and his intense admiration for Edgar Allan Poe. Help support the show at patreon.com/literature or historyofliterature.com/shop. (We appreciate it!) Find out more at historyofliterature.com, jackewilson.com, or by following Jacke and Mike on Twitter at @thejackewilson and @literatureSC. Or send an email to [email protected]. New!!! Looking for an easy to way to buy Jacke a coffee? Now you can at paypal.me/jackewilson. Your generosity is much appreciated! The History of Literature Podcast is a member of Lit Hub Radio and the Podglomerate Network. Learn more at www.thepodglomerate.com/historyofliterature. *** This show is a part of the Podglomerate network, a company that produces, distributes, and monetizes podcasts. We encourage you to visit the website and sign up for our newsletter for more information about our shows, launches, and events. For more information on how The Podglomerate treats data, please see our Privacy Policy. Since you're listening to The History of Literature, we'd like to suggest you also try other Podglomerate shows surrounding literature, history, and storytelling like Storybound, Micheaux Mission, and The History of Standup. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Transcript

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0:00.0	The History of Literature Podcast is a member of the Podglamorate Network and LIT Hub Radio. To the reader,
0:30.4	ignorance, error, lust, and greed and sin possess our souls and exercise our flesh. Habitually we cultivate remorse, like horrors and beggars nourishing their lice.
0:38.3	Our sins are stubborn.
0:40.3	Cowards, when contrite, we overpay confession with our pains
0:45.0	And when we're back again in human mire
0:48.0	vile tears we think will wash away our stains.
0:54.0	Powerful Satan watching by our sick beds lulls us to sleep,
1:00.0	our spirit over-kist, until the precious metal of our will is vaporized that cunning
1:10.0	alchemist who but the devil pulls our puppet strings?
1:16.0	Luring us with abominations, each day we take another step to hell.
1:22.0	Descending through the stench unhorified, like a pathetic drunk who mouths
1:30.6	and chews the sagging breast of an old withered whore.
1:36.0	We steal in passing whatever joys we can, squeezing the driest orange all the more.
1:48.0	Packed in our brains incestuous as worms, our demons celebrate in drunken gangs.
1:56.7	And when we breathe, that hollow rasp is death,
2:09.7	sliding invisibly down into her lungs. If the dull canvas of our wretched life is unembellished with such pretty things as knives or poison, pyromania, rape.
2:21.5	It is because our souls too weak to dare.
2:27.0	But in this den of jackals, monkeys, dogs, scorpions, buzzards, snakes.
2:35.0	This paradise of filthy beasts that screech, howl, grovel, grunt.
2:43.5	In this menagerie of mankind's vice, there's one supremely hideous and impure.
2:52.4	Soft spoken, not the type to cause a scene. He'd willingly make rubble of the earth
2:59.3	and swallow up creation in a yawn.
	...

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