Charles Baudelaire (Paris in 1821 - Paris 1867).


After moving in Lyon with his family when he was 12, he started to attend a military school, but just before been graduated, he was kicked out.
Sonn after he spent the following years trying to pursue a carrier as writer hanging around the Latin Quarter in Paris.

In 1841 his parents tried to send him to India to let him forget his bohemian life style, but he escaped returning in Paris one year later, when he received an inheritance that let him live his dandy life without many problems, starting to experiment with hashish and opium.
His real love was Jeanne Duval, his muse for the "Black Venus" section of Les Fleurs du mal.
Very soon, most of his inheritance was over and his family succeded in managing the rest of his fortune letting him just a little amount to let him survive for the rest of his life.

For this reason, he started to write reviews and art criticism in order to have an additional income.
In 1854 he started to translate Edgar Allan Poe's books, been very acclaimed.

1857 was a crucial year for Baudelaire. Infact the first edition of "Les Fleurs du mal" was finally published.
Some of the poems were condemned for their lesbian love content and this ban went on till 1949!
Gustave Flaubert was really enthusiastic about him, writing him a letter: "You have found a way to inject new life into Romanticism...."

Les Fleurs du mal, gave Baudelaire the famous reputation of a poéte maudit (cursed poet) and he even flaunted his eccentricities after this fame;
He published many "Petits poémes en prose" (Little Poems in Prose) that were collected after his death.

When he was 41, started to suffer nightmares and many strokes that took him slowly to death on August 31, 1867, even though it's thought that the real reason for his death was the syphilis.
Baudelaire was surely a visionary precursor and acclaimed writers like Mallarmé, Verlaine and Rimbaud recognized him as a predecessor and source of inspiration.

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Spleen is surely the most famous out of the four poems entitled in this way in "Les Fleurs du mal". A heart rending poem that goes straight to the darkest lair of your soul...
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Spleen

Quando il cielo plumbeo e basso grava come un coperchio
sullo spirito gemente in preda a lunghi affanni,
e abbracciando l'intero cerchio dell'orizzonte
versa in noi un giorno nero più triste della notte;

quando la terra è mutata in un'umida prigione,
dove la Speranza, come un pipistrello,
va battendo contro i muri la sua timida ala
e picchia la testa su soffitti marci;

quando la pioggia spandendo le sue immense strisce
imita le sbarre di un'enorme prigione,
e un popolo muto d'infami ragni
tende le sue reti in fondo ai nostri cervelli,

delle campane all'improvviso sobbalzano con furia
e lanciano verso il cielo un urlo spaventoso,
come spiriti erranti e senza patria
che si mettono a gemere ostinatamente.

− E lunghi funebri cortei, senza tamburi né musica,
sfilano lentamente nella mia anima; la Speranza,
vinta, piange; e l'atroce Angoscia, dispotica,
pianta sul mio cranio inclinato il suo nero vessillo.

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Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle
Sur l'esprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis,
Et que de l'horizon embrassant tout le cercle
Il nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits;

Quand la terre est changée en un cachot humide,
Où l'Espérance, comme une chauve-souris,
S'en va battant les murs de son aile timide
Et se cognant la tête à des plafonds pourris;

Quand la pluie étalant ses immenses traînées
D'une vaste prison imite les barreaux,
Et qu'un peuple muet d'infâmes araignées
Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,

Des cloches tout à coup sautent avec furie
Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement,
Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie
Qui se mettent à geindre opiniâtrément.

− Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique,
Défilent lentement dans mon âme; l'Espoir,
Vaincu, pleure, et l'Angoisse atroce, despotique,
Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.