Charles Baudelaire
Windows
An open window never reveals as much as one that is shut. Nothing is more profound, more mysterious, more stimulating, more sinister, or more brilliant than a window lighted by a lone candle. Reject the light of day. In the dark or luminous space behind an opaque windowpane, life goes on, goes on dreaming, goes on suffering.
Across the rooftops, I notice a woman of a certain age, worn out, poor, always bent over, never able to get away. From just her face, her clothes, her gestures, from next to nothing, I have fabricated this woman’s life story, or rather her myth, and sometimes when I tell it I burst into tears.
(If the individual I saw had been a poor old man, I would have made up his life story just as easily.)
And I lie down, proud to have lived and suffered in lives other than my own.
Maybe you’ll object: “Are you sure that the story you told is true?” What does it matter, what difference does it make, if it has helped me to live, to feel that I am and what I am?
—Translated from the French by David Lehman
published in Conduit
Baudelaire, entering into the suffering of others, the poet's gift. Beautiful, clear translation.
Captures his passion.
Happy, healthy, creative 2025 to all.
Posted by: Emily Fragos | December 30, 2024 at 10:26 AM