Preface

France is going through a vulgar phase. Paris, the heart and power of universal stupidity. In spite of Moliere and Beranger, one would never have thought that France would go so far in the name of Progress. -Questions of art, terrae incognitae. The great man is a fool.

My book may have done some good. This doesn’t cause me distress. It may have done harm. This doesn’t make me rejoice.

The aim of poetry. This book was not written for my wives, my daughters or my sisters.

I have been accused of all the crimes I am telling you about. Amusement of hatred and scorn. The elegiac is sentimental twaddle. Et verbum Caro factum est. – Yet the poet has no part to play in that. Otherwise, he would be a mere mortal.

The devil. Original sin. Virtuous man. If desired, you could be the Tyrant’s favourite; it is harder to love God than to believe in him. For the people of this century, however, it is harder to believe in the Devil than to love him. Everyone serves him and no one believes it. The Devil’s sublime subtlety.

A soul of my choosing. The Decor. Innovation. The Epigraph. d’Aurevilly. The Renaissance. Gerard de Nerval. We are all hung or about to be.

I put some filth in there to please MM the journalists. They have shown themselves to be ungrateful.

Preface To The Flowers

I have not written this book for my wives, my daughters or my sisters; nor have I written it for my neighbours’ wives or daughters or sisters. I leave such formalities to those who like to confuse beautiful language with good deeds.

I know that a passionate lover of a beautiful style exposes himself to the hatred of millions. But no respect for mankind, no false modesty, no coalition and no universal suffering will stop me from speaking the incomparable patois of this century, nor will I mistake ink for virtue.

Distinguished poets have for a long time shared the most fertile provinces of the poetic domain. Extracting the beauty of evil seemed to me to be a good thing, made even more agreeable as the task grew more difficult. This book, essentially useless and absolutely innocent, was written with no other aim than my enjoyment and to exercise my passionate taste for obstructions.

Some people told me that these poems could cause harm; this did not make me rejoice. Some good souls said they could do some good; this did not distress me. I was equally astonished by the fear of some and the hopes of others, and all it did was to prove to me once and for all that this century has unlearned all the classic notions that we apply to literature.

Despite the best efforts of some well-known pedants to contribute to man’s natural foolishness, I would never have believed that our country could have marched with such speed down the path of Progress. This world has acquired a depth of vulgarity that makes it scorn spiritual man with the violence of passion. But there exist some happy carapaces that poison itself cannot seep into.

I originally intended to respond to my several critics and, at the same time, to explain some very simple questions that are completely obscured by modern enlightenment: what is Poetry? What is its aim? the difference between what is good and what is beautiful; the beauty in evil; rhythm and rhyme that fulfills the immortal need in man for monotony, symmetry and surprise; the adaptation of style to subject; the vanity and danger of inspiration, etc., etc.; but I was unwise enough to read some popular newspapers this morning; suddenly, an indolence, the weight of twenty atmospheres, descended on me, and I stopped myself from the appalling futility of explaining whatever it is to whomever it is. Those who know will see the meaning.

And for those who cannot see or do not want to, I will pile up the fruitless explanations.

Allyson Dowling lives in Dublin. This translation has been longlisted for the Some Blind Alleys writing competition.