Au Lecteur by Charles Baudelaire

A new translation

Original art by me

Like the protagonist in Huysmans’ brilliant À Rebours, my copy of Charles Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal is never far from my hands. It’s been an invaluable companion while I’ve been learning French over the past year, but even if I weren’t studying the language I’d classify the collection of poems as one of those rare, life-changing books. So when my writing group announced a poetry translation contest, I knew I would choose something by Baudelaire. I was spoiled for choice, but the opening poem “Au lecteur” has always struck a particular chord with me - perhaps because I am often my own worst enemy in my lassitude (a feeling I’m sure many other well-intentioned creatives can relate to).

I started with a strict, almost stilted translation, but as I revised, my interpretation got looser and looser. I aimed for lyricism in the final English outcome and that can sometimes come at the expense of word omissions or the occasional outright change - though I strived to preserve the integrity of Baudelaire’s intent in every line.

To start things off, my English translation is as follows:

To the Reader - Charles Baudelaire

Folly, error, greed, and sin
Grip our soul and pain our bones
We feed our cherished friend Remorse
Like beggars nourish fleas and lice.

Our vice is stubborn, we repent like cur;
We pay a rich sum for our confessions
And gaily tread the muddy path,
Believing vile tears can wash away our stains.

There sits Satan Trismegistus on his unholy throne
Who lulls our soul enchantingly
And the rich metal steel of our will
Is vaporised by his talented alchemy.

It is the Devil that pulls our strings
We find repugnancy’s appeal
Each day we descend another step towards Hell
Without horror, to traverse those stinking shadows.

So like a poor lecher kisses and bites
The martyred tit of a withered whore
We steal away our secret pleasures
That we press like shrivelled fruit.

Crowded, teeming like a million worms
The demons riot in our heads
And when we breathe, Death descends
Like a stream of mute laments.

If rape, poison, arson, the knife	
Haven’t embroidered pleasing designs
On the bland canvas of our piteous fate,
It’s because our soul, alas! is wanting.

But among the jackals, panthers, lice,
The apes, scorpions, vultures, and snakes,
The yelping, howling, grunting, crawling beasts
In the infamous menagerie of our vices,

There is an ugly, meaner, fouler brute
With neither cries nor gestures grand,
He gleefully lays waste the land,
And yawning, swallows up the earth;

It’s Ennui! – its winking eye, the lazy tear,
The scaffold dream in hookah smoke. 
You know it, reader, this tricky fiend,
Hypocrite reader – brother – twin! 

The poem in its original French:

Au Lecteur - Charles Baudelaire

La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.

Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.

Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
Et le riche métal de notre volonté
Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.

C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.

Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.

Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,
Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.

Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.

Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,

II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!
Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;

C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!

I’m hardly at the level where I should be doing translations, let alone translations of one of the greatest artists of the French language, but it was a fun exercise working with both languages and I surely learned a lot.

To close things off, here’s a short original poem that’s inspired by some stanzas in “Au lecteur” (and by Les Fleurs du mal itself).

Repugnant Delights

Woe is me -  woe to thee, they say,
Ye who were born outide Hell's gates,
Delivered to the waiting arms of father Satan himself:
Those who cannot hear the voices of angels,
Except the fallen.

But we damned few are blessed, too -
For if a tyrant rips our ribs from our chests
Or the viper strikes at our heel
Or there is nothing -
It cannot harm us; we find joy in it all.
 
Blessed is the babe who knows 
From shit comes the flowers