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Occupation:
Poet
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Hobbies and Interests:
Baudelaire, spleen, opium, decay, absinthe, absence, la beaute, les charognes, les chats, les cheveux, literary criticism, bohemia, dandyism, syphilis, pouting, you know -- the usual...
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Favorite Books:
Les Paradis Artificiels, Les Fleurs Du Mal, anti-Belgian essays.
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Zodiac Sign:
Aries
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About Me:
Jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.
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Who I Want to Meet:
Fellow poets, writers, philosophes, exotics, whorish actresses, barons and/or other semi-nobles to fund my envelopment in the velvet hand of vice. Les etres qui viennent du ciel profond ou sortent de l'abime. Write soon!
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See results for Charles Baudelaire
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How could you not break the heart, how
could you not stop the pain, how could
you not dismiss the foolishness, how
could you not pity the desperation and
how could you not lose the beauty of
being adored by a very lonely lonely man?
doctoral thesis might never have been
written, and my energies might have
been directed toward creating children
or a career, instead of a 350 page heap
of shit which now gathers dust on the
Bodleian shelves. Thanks again. Shame
about the syphilis. Viva Belgium!
girlfriend, Jeanne Duval. She was one
of those impulsive nymphos that are,
initially, very appealing on a
primitive level. After the fifth time
they wake you up in the middle of the
night, plagued by ludicrous jealousies
and unnamed fears, you realize they're
bi-polar and breaking up with them is
going to be messy. Baudelaire was a
more patient man than I (poets usually
are); he stayed with her for twenty
years. Then again, he had VD.
involontaire, / Il reve d'echafauds en fumant
son houka. / Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre
delicat, / - Hypocrite lecteur, - mon semblable, -
mon frere!
I do know ce monstre delicat...that
squeamish fiend.... I AM your hypocrite
reader, your alias, your twin.....
Connais-tu, comme moi, la douleur
savoureuse.......YES, I have felt a
pain that I have enjoyed......Et de toi
fais-tu dire: "Oh! l'homme
singulier!" .......I admit that I am
strange...... nose deep in books, legs
spread wide on desk.......My spleen has
left the hypochondriac region and moved
to my mouth, where it sits waiting for
you.
of folly and despair, of passion and
rapture. a thusand years of reading
your work would not have made me blase'.