{"id":10535,"date":"2021-01-13T12:29:33","date_gmt":"2021-01-13T12:29:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/cassandravoices.com\/?p=10535"},"modified":"2021-01-13T12:29:33","modified_gmt":"2021-01-13T12:29:33","slug":"love-denied-baudelaires-une-charogne","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/2021\/01\/13\/love-denied-baudelaires-une-charogne\/","title":{"rendered":"Love Denied: Baudelaire\u2019s Une Charogne"},"content":{"rendered":"

Une Charogne<\/em> (1859) is among the most important poems of the 19th century, containing all of its author\u2019s ground-breaking aesthetic. Our own aesthetically challenged century could learn a lot from it, in terms of the aesthetic of rupture, spleen and discord.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is Baudelaire\u2019s response, in a sense, to the early Romantics, such as John Keats for example, and particularly concerning notions of beauty. Baudelaire, like Mary Shelley and Shakespeare before her, found more engagement in what could be described as the dark horror of existence, which had always existed in literature, particularly in writers such as Dante Alighieri, in whose work Dame Francis Yates saw the keys, or genesis, of the Gothic novel: in particular in the last Canto of the Inferno when Count Ugolino is forced by starvation to eat his sons locked away in a tower. However, Baudelaire\u2019s genius was to take such an aesthetic into the everyday. In this this way he was a true revolutionary and visionary.<\/p>\n

\"\"
Count Ugolino and his sons in their cell, as painted by William Blake circa 1826.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Une Charogne<\/em> is the perfect example of his aesthetic. The poet starts off describing a carcass which he has seen rotting on his way home, and which he associates with a former love which he felt for his girlfriend. The reader, however, is only made aware of this in the very last verse of the poem. The remarkable contrast of topics is so unexpected that even one-hundred-and-sixty-years on the poem continues to shock.<\/p>\n

The poem, typically, follows the genre of memento mori<\/em>, Baudelaire\u2019s originality lies, however, in applying what were rather banal motifs associated with death \u2013 such as skulls placed alongside everyday fare like fruit and flowers \u2013 and then to insert affairs of the flesh, and, of course, the heart.<\/p>\n

Only readers who have experienced real heartbreak themselves, what the Ancient Greeks described as the Orphic mysteries, will have any real appreciation of the fantastical act of catharsis<\/em> that is taking place, how the poet wonderfully evokes his former passion for a beloved, and then inverts Love with its counterpart Hate; thus upturning the apple cart of feelings for the beloved which have been transformed into their opposite; diabolical hatred and disgust; perhaps more so for himself, for being duped by such feelings in the first place!<\/p>\n

As indicated, anyone who has been in Love and who has then lost \u2013 inevitably harbouring a sense of betrayal \u2013 will recognise, and feel, the powerful emotions driving the poem forward. The poet\u2019s dedication and craft at the description of the whole process continue to inspire awe.<\/p>\n

\"\"
Three Studies for a Portrait of Henrietta Moraes, by Francis Bacon,1963.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Francis Bacon Interviews<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Regarding my transversion, I was helped enormously by using the interviews conducted by David Sylvester with the twentieth century British painter Francis Bacon. Bacon was a keen reader of Baudelaire, and one who followed the French poet\u2019s dramatic overhaul of the Romantic spirit. One only has to consider Bacon\u2019s entire corpus of imagery, the violent palette of colour, the decomposing matter of flesh, and the \u2018smoky bacon\u2019 of decomposing Love!<\/p>\n

I find that this unique aesthetic contradicts directly the flimsy narrative of many contemporary literary journals which are marred by politically correct censorship; the overwhelming and ever-present narrative of all-inclusivity and sensitivity to Others that has now reached idiotic proportions.<\/p>\n

What do I mean by that? Take for example the narrative of Une Charogne<\/em> below. Anybody reading the poem with a half a brain will understand there is a very definite mask wearing taking place on the part of the poet. The diabolical humour is just that, a very nasty joke. But one which is very human.<\/p>\n

When one has been jilted the immediate response is to seek revenge. Exact some hate! This is simply being human, and to deny the presence of this impulse is simply perverse. All is fair in love and war. A person who has betrayed you with another having vowed to love you forever is now in the arms of another.<\/p>\n

\"\"
Portrait of Charles Baudelaire by Gustave Courbet (1848).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Fail Again<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

There is, I would say, no greater pain on this Earth than the agony of abandonment. It is the hardest possible task for any human being to accept graciously that loss, and then to move on. It reflects the instruction of Samuel Beckett<\/span><\/a> in Worstward-Ho<\/em>: \u2018Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.\u2019<\/p>\n

Life onwards will be mere monochrome. A travesty in a sense. This is the exact sentiment that lies behind Baudelaire\u2019s Une Charogne<\/em>. The poet is damned, damned by the Other. And so he will exact his revenge. The poet finds it in the poem, alone, in its very composition.<\/p>\n

I would liken this Art to extracting puss. It is an act of catharsis<\/em>. Again, a very Greek notion. Francis Bacon was also a great fan of the Ancient Greeks, like Baudelaire before him.<\/p>\n

I have made the point repeatedly: if there is not a little poison in the well there is no sweetness to the water. I have met all too many high-minded moralists who plead constantly for whatever Other is currently in fashion.<\/p>\n

These latter-day saints among the chattering classes are hypocrites, who sanctimoniously bottle up their resentments. I have been a witness to a deformed humanity spurting out in the most toxic manner imaginable. Believe me, it is not a pretty sight! \u2014 <\/em>Hypocrite lecteur<\/em><\/a><\/span>, \u2014 mon semblable, \u2014 mon fr\u00e8re!<\/em> (\u2014 Hypocritish reader, \u2014 my fellow, \u2014 my brother!)<\/p>\n

\"\"
The French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan.
<\/em><\/strong><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Broken Word<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

On the philosophical plane the poet has completely sublimated Friedrich Hegel\u2019s (1871-1831) dialectic of the Master and Servant. To speak in the terms of Baudelaire\u2019s countryman Jacques Lacan (1901-1981) \u2013 of a different generation but observing an unaltered humanity \u2013 he is killing symbolically the Other in the world of the Real. This for Lacan, as for the poet, is entirely symbolic.<\/p>\n

Baudrillard \u2013 perhaps the most Baudelairean of late twentieth century French thinkers \u2013 was to make of this his unique discourse point. He believed that we had lost our capacity for creating metaphor, so enamoured were we by the hyperreal; that is to say the literality of living we now observe in a mediated age where news is constant, and so ever-present. The Hegelian Now repeated ad infinitum <\/em>is a poet\u2019s nightmare. This explains why we are living in a period of atrocious, purely confessional poetry. The so- called \u2018Spoken Word\u2019 where the Now is Ever Present!<\/p>\n

I AM<\/em><\/p>\n

The spoken word speaks \u2013 BEING poetry itself! Such is the utter fallacy.<\/em><\/p>\n

This is the poetry of idiots.<\/em><\/p>\n

If you do not kill your enemy symbolically, you will never kill him. Such is the Real. Not reality, but the symbolically Real, which for a poet IS the only reality.<\/p>\n

Have you ever considered where Populist monsters spring from?<\/p>\n

Take a leaf out of Baudelaire\u2019s black book, write your words in Hate, as much as Love. Be the totality that is You. And you will be a better artist, and Human, for it.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XXIX.- UNE CHAROGNE<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

Rappelez -vous l\u2019objet que nous v\u00eemes, mon \u00e2me,<\/em>
\nCe beau matin d\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9 si doux :<\/em>
\nAu detour d\u2019un sentier une charogne inf\u00e2me<\/em>
\nSur un lit sem\u00e9 de cailloux,<\/em><\/p>\n

Les jambes en l\u2019air, comme une femme lubrique,<\/em>
\nBr\u00fblante et suant les poisons,<\/em>
\nOuvrant d\u2019une fa\u00e7on nonchalante et cynique<\/em>
\nSon ventre plein d\u2019exhalaisons.<\/em><\/p>\n

Le soleil rayonnait sur cette pourriture,<\/em>
\nComme afin de la cuire \u00e0 point,<\/em>
\nEt de rendre au centuple \u00e0 la grande Nature<\/em>
\nTout ce qu\u2019ensemble elle avait joint ;<\/em><\/p>\n

Et le ciel regardait la carcasse superbe<\/em>
\nComme une fleur s\u2019\u00e9panouir.<\/em>
\nLa puanteur \u00e9tait si forte, que sur l\u2019herbe<\/em>
\nVous cr\u00fbtes vous \u00e9vanouir.<\/em><\/p>\n

Les mouches bourdonnaient sur se ventre putride,<\/em>
\nD\u2019o\u00f9 sortaient de noirs bataillons<\/em>
\nDes larves, qui coulaient comme un \u00e9pais liquide<\/em>
\nLe long de ce vivants haillons.<\/em><\/p>\n

Tout cela descendait, montait comme un vague,<\/em>
\nOu s\u2019\u00e9lan\u00e7ait en p\u00e9tillant;<\/em>
\nOn e\u00fbt dit que le corps, enfl\u00e9 d\u2019un souffle vague,<\/em>
\nVivait en se multipliant.<\/em><\/p>\n

Et ce monde rendait une \u00e9trange musique,<\/em>
\nComme l\u2019eau courante et le vent,<\/em>
\nOu le grain qu\u2019un vanneur d\u2019un mouvement rythmique<\/em>
\nAgite et tourne dans son van.<\/em><\/p>\n

Les formes s\u2019effa\u00e7aient et n\u2019\u00e9taient plus qu\u2019un r\u00eave,<\/em>
\nUne \u00e9bauche lente \u00e0 venir,<\/em>
\nSur la toile oubli\u00e9e, et que l\u2019artiste ach\u00e8ve<\/em>
\nSeulement par le souvenir.<\/em><\/p>\n

Derri\u00e8re les rochers une chienne inqui\u00e8te<\/em>
\nNous regardait d\u2019un oeil f\u00e2ch\u00e9,<\/em>
\n\u00c9piant le moment de reprendre au squelette<\/em>
\nLe morceau qu\u2019elle avait l\u00e2ch\u00e9.<\/em><\/p>\n

Et pourtant vous serez semblabe \u00e0 cette ordure,<\/em>
\nA cette horrible infection,<\/em>
\nEtoile de mes yeux, soleil de ma nature,<\/em>
\nVous, mon ange et ma passion !<\/em><\/p>\n

Oui ! telle vous serez, \u00f4 la reine des graces,<\/em>
\nApr\u00e8s les derniers sacrements,<\/em>
\nQuand vous irez, sous l\u2019herbe et les floraisons grasses,<\/em>
\nMoisir parmi les ossements.<\/em><\/p>\n

Alors, \u00f4 ma beaut\u00e9 ! dites \u00e0 la vermine<\/em>
\nQui vous mangera de baisers,<\/em>
\nQue j\u2019ai gard\u00e9 la forme et l\u2019essence divine<\/em>
\nDes mes amours d\u00e9compos\u00e9s !<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XXXIX. \u2013 The Exquisite Cadaver<\/strong><\/p>\n

Remember the ideal object which you discovered~
\nThat beautiful summer morning, Dear soul:
\nBy way of the path where you found that exquisite
\nCadaver lying on a bed of pebbles,<\/p>\n

Her legs in the air, like some old tart,
\nBurning and stewing in poisons,
\nHer belly slit, almost nonchalantly,
\nPouring forth all manner of noxious gasses.<\/p>\n

The sun burns down on the decomposing
\nBody, as if searing a steak,
\nRendering back a hundred- fold to Mother Nature,
\nWhat she herself had first conjoined.<\/p>\n

And the sky looks upon the superb carcass
\nAs it would upon a flower of Evil,
\nThe rigor mortis encroaching to such a point
\nThat the very earth around it has been scorched.<\/p>\n

Great Blue Bottles swarm in convoys,
\nBuzzing out of the gaping cave, Cyclopean…
\nWhile a treacle of feasting larvae thickly drip,
\nMaking of the stain a macabre Persian carpet.<\/p>\n

The process of decomposition rose before me,
\nFalling in waves, and which I perceived in a kind of
\nPointillism, so that, wave-borne,
\nThe corpse seemed to come alive and multiply before me!<\/p>\n

This alternate universe was announced in atonal chords,
\nAnd hit me with all the fever of a jungle humidity,
\nOr, like the sporadic grains, scattered by a winnower,
\nWhose rhythmic movements spun me in a dervish.<\/p>\n

The effaced shapes and forms were as if but a dream
\nFrom a preliminary sketch, slow to arrive,
\nAnd which the artist, not being able to rely on memory,
\nHad then to resort to the magnetism of specific photographs.<\/p>\n

Behind the rocks an unnerved dog
\nLooked at us both with a ravenous eye,
\nTrying to deduce the auspicious minute
\nWhen he could rip apart some rotting flesh from the bones.<\/p>\n

And yet, You now would appear to be not so dissimilar to this horror,
\nThis putrid infection,
\nAt one time Star de mes yeux,
\nYou my one time, all consuming passion!<\/p>\n

Yes! After the last rites have long ago been pronounced upon us,
\nO You, my once graceful Queen,
\nWhen will you now, in your own time,
\nWallow with these bones upon the grass?<\/p>\n

So, my great Beauty! Whisper then to the vermin
\nHow you will cherish their kisses,
\nWhile I guard for eternity this sublime image,
\nOf all of our decomposing Love.<\/p>\n

Feature Image: Charles Baudelaire by \u00c9tienne Carjat<\/a>, 1863<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Une Charogne (1859) is among the most important poems of the 19th century, containing all of its author\u2019s ground-breaking aesthetic. Our own aesthetically challenged century could learn a lot from it, in terms of the aesthetic of rupture, spleen and discord. It is Baudelaire\u2019s response, in a sense, to the early Romantics, such as John […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":237,"featured_media":10565,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[848,849,1551,1961,3152,3439,3440,4820,5324,6891,6898,7141,7143,7155,7159,7951,8110,8576],"class_list":["post-10535","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-culture","tag-baudelaires-une-charogne","tag-baudelairean","tag-charles-baudelaire","tag-count-ugolino","tag-fail-again-fail-better","tag-francis-bacon","tag-francis-bacon-and-baudelaire","tag-jean-baudrillard","tag-lacan","tag-origins-of-the-gothic-novel","tag-orphic-mysteries-love","tag-peter-oneill-baudelaire","tag-peter-oneill-cassandra-voics","tag-peter-oneill-literary-criticisms","tag-peter-oneill-poet","tag-romantic-poetry","tag-samuel-beckett","tag-spoken-word-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10535","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/237"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=10535"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10535\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=10535"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=10535"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=10535"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}