Les Fleurs du Mal Quotes by Charles Baudelaire
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There are many cat lovers who are looking to read everything written under the sun about cats! These enthusiasts inspired me to translate this poem. Below, you can listen to the poem being recited in French while reading the original text. Both are followed by my English translation. Les chats recited by Caroline Sophie. Passionate lovers and serious scholars Both, in their mature years, adore cats, Potent and gentle, pride of the house, Like them they are cold, and like them sedentary. While dreaming, they assume the noble pose Of the great sphinxes lounging in desolation, Appearing to be asleep in an eternal dream.
Je vois ma femme en esprit. Come, superb cat, to my amorous heart; Hold back the talons of your paws, Let me gaze into your beautiful eyes Of metal and agate. When my fingers leisurely caress you, Your head and your elastic back, And when my hand tingles with the pleasure Of feeling your electric body,. In spirit I see my woman. Her gaze Like your own, amiable beast, Profound and cold, cuts and cleaves like a dart,. And, from her head down to her feet, A subtle air, a dangerous perfume Floats about her dusky body.
Come my beautiful cat, rest on my amorous heart. Restrain the sharp claws of your passage; I will plunge into the hearth Where your agate eyes burn with savage Metal. While my fingers move lazily To stroke your head and yielding spine, My hands pulse with a frisson that fills me And guides me; I remember my divine Mistress. I see her in essence, her look Just like yours, dear personable beast. Profound and cold, it pierced and shook Me, a captive from her head to her feet. What perilous perfume her dusky body gives; The brown opium of my desire still lives.
Tant son timbre est tendre et discret; Mais que sa voix s'apaise ou gronde, Elle est toujours riche et profonde. Elle endort les plus cruels maux Et contient toutes les extases; Pour dire les plus longues phrases, Elle n'a pas besoin de mots. Non, il n'est pas d'archet qui morde Sur mon coeur, parfait instrument, Et fasse plus royalement Chanter sa plus vibrante corde,. In my brain there walks about, As though he were in his own home, A lovely cat, strong, sweet, charming. When he mews, one scarcely hears him,. His tone is so discreet and soft; But purring or growling, his voice Is always deep and rich; That is his charm and secret. That voice forms into drops, trickles Into the depths of my being, Fills me like harmonious verse And gladdens me like a philtre.
Charles Baudelaire. Aos dezoito anos, aluno brilhante mas bravio, foi expulso do liceu Louis-le-Grand. Atingido por hemiplegia, sofreu uma longa agonia antes de falecer numa relativa pobreza, em Agosto de Il publie les Paradis artificiels en You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google account. You are commenting using your Twitter account.