Unhappy perhaps is the man, but happy the artist, who is shattered by desire!
I burn to paint her who appeared to me so rarely and who fled so
quickly, like a beautiful lamented thing left by the traveler swept into
the night. She disappeared already so long ago!
She is beautiful, and more than beautiful; she is surprising. Black
abounds in her, and everything she inspires is nocturnal and deep. Her
eyes are two caves dimly glittering with mystery, and her gaze illumines
like lightening: an explosion in darkness.
I might compare her to a black sun, if you could imagine a black star
pouring forth light and happiness. But she reminds more readily of the
moon, which probably branded her with her fearsome influence. Not
the white moon of romance, which resembles a frigid bride, but the
sinister and intoxicating moon, suspended deep within a stormy night and
jostled by fleeing clouds. Not the peaceful and discrete moon attending
upon the sleep of pure people, but the moon ripped from the sky,
defeated and rebellious, which the Witches of Thessaly fiercely compel
to dance on the terrified grass!
A stubborn will and the love of prey dwell on her little brow. However,
below her disquieting face, where mobile nostrils inhale the unknown and
the impossible, with inexpressible grace, there bursts the laughter of a
large mouth, red and white, and delicious, calling to mind the miracle
of a magnificent flower budding in volcanic ground.
Some women inspire the need to defeat them and take full pleasure from
them; but this one arouses the desire to die slowly under her gaze.
From The Parisian Prowler by Baudelaire
Translated by
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