Charles Baudelaire :: svět prokletého básníka :: Poezie a próza
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Malé básně v próze

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Fanfarlo

Důvěrný deník


originale française

Les fleurs du mal

Petits poemes en prose

La Fanfarlo


Baudelaire in English

The Flowers of Evil

» Prose Poems «

The Stranger
The Confiteor Of the Artist
The Double Chamber
Every Man His Chimera
Venus And the Fool
The Glass-vendor
At One O'Clock In the Morning
The Widows
The Invitation To the Voyage
The Temptations
The Thyrsus - To Franz Liszt
Intoxication
Already!
The Desire To Paint
The Gifts Of the Moon
What Is Truth?
The Marksman
» The Shooting-range And the Cemetery. «

Fanfarlo




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The Shooting-range And the Cemetery.


"Cemetery View Inn" "A queer sign," said our traveller to himself; "but it raises a thirst! Certainly the keeper -o f this inn appreciates Horace and
the poet pupils of Epicurus. Perhaps he even apprehends the profound philosophy of those old Egyptians who had no feast without its skeleton, or some emblem of life's brevity."
He entered: drank a glass of beer in presence of the tombs; and slowly smoked a cigar. Then, his phantasy driving him, he went down into the cemetery, where the grass was so tall and inviting; so brilliant in the sunshine.
The light and heat, indeed, were so furiously intense that one had said the drunken sun wallowed upon a carpet of flowers that had fattened upon the
corruption beneath.
The air was heavy with vivid rumours of life the life of things infinitely small and broken at intervals by the crackling of shots from a neighbouring
shooting-range, that exploded with a sound as of champagne corks to the burden of a hollow symphony.
And then, beneath a sun which scorched the brain, and in that atmosphere charged with the ardent perfume of death, he heard a voice whispering out of
the tomb where he sat. And this voice said: "Accursed be your rifles and targets, you turbulent living ones, who care so little for the dead in their divine repose! Accursed be your ambitions and calculations, importunate mortals who study the arts of slaughter near the sanctuary of Death himself! Did you but know how easy the prize to win, how facile the end to reach, and how all save Death is naught, not so greatly would you fatigue yourselves, O ye laborious alive; nor would you so often vex the slumber of them that long ago reached the End - the only true end of life detestable!"








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