It is now PAST the 11th hour Mon Freres... tick tock tick tock!
President George W. Bush (left), Sect'y Treasury Henry Paulson (center), Chairman of the Federal Reserve Ben Bernanke (right)*******************************************************
I was led to this website when I began looking up Charles Baudelaire who I had to study back in college. This poem came to me in the spirit while I was posting this message. I wanted to share both the french and english versions. This is from his book titled 'Fleurs du mal published in 1868' which means 'Flowers of Evil'. Please click here to be directed to the Fleurs Du Mal website if you are interested in reading more of his work.
Punishment for Pride
by Charles Baudelaire (translated by William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
In that marvelous time in which Theology Flourished with the greatest energy and vigor, It is said that one day a most learned doctor— After winning by force the indifferent hearts, Having stirred them in the dark depths of their being; After crossing on the way to celestial glory, Singular and strange roads, even to him unknown, Which only pure Spirits, perhaps, had reached, — Panic-stricken, like one who has clambered too high, He cried, carried away by a satanic pride:"Jesus, little jesus! I raised you very high! But had I wished to attack you through the defect In your armor, your shame would equal your glory, And you would be no more than a despised fetus!"
At that very moment his reason departed. A crape of mourning veiled the brilliance of that sun; Complete chaos rolled in and filled that intellect, A temple once alive, ordered and opulent, Within whose walls so much pomp had glittered. Silence and darkness took possession of it Like a cellar to which the key is lost.
Henceforth he was like the beasts in the street, And when he went along, seeing nothing, across The fields, distinguishing nor summer nor winter, Dirty, useless, ugly, like a discarded thing, He was the laughing-stock, the joke, of the children.
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Châtiment de l'Orgueil
by Charles Baudelaire
En ces temps merveilleux où la Théologie Fleurit avec le plus de sève et d'énergie, On raconte qu'un jour un docteur des plus grands,— Après avoir forcé les coeurs indifférents; Les avoir remués dans leurs profondeurs noires; Après avoir franchi vers les célestes gloires Des chemins singuliers à lui-même inconnus, Où les purs Esprits seuls peut-être étaient venus, — Comme un homme monté trop haut, pris de panique, S'écria, transporté d'un orgueil satanique: «Jésus, petit Jésus! je t'ai poussé bien haut! Mais, si j'avais voulu t'attaquer au défaut De l'armure, ta honte égalerait ta gloire, Et tu ne serais plus qu'un foetus dérisoire!»
Immédiatement sa raison s'en alla. L'éclat de ce soleil d'un crêpe se voila Tout le chaos roula dans cette intelligence, Temple autrefois vivant, plein d'ordre et d'opulence, Sous les plafonds duquel tant de pompe avait lui. Le silence et la nuit s'installèrent en lui, Comme dans un caveau dont la clef est perdue. Dès lors il fut semblable aux bêtes de la rue, Et, quand il s'en allait sans rien voir, à travers Les champs, sans distinguer les étés des hivers, Sale, inutile et laid comme une chose usée, Il faisait des enfants la joie et la risée.
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