***
When the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid/ On the groaning spirit, victim of long ennui,/
And from the all-encircling horizon/ Spreads over us a day gloomier than the night;
And from the all-encircling horizon/ Spreads over us a day gloomier than the night;
When the earth is changed into a humid dungeon,/ In which Hope like a bat/
Goes beating the walls with her timid wings/ And knocking her head against the rotten ceiling/
When the rain stretching out its endless train/ Imitates the bars of a vast prison/
And a silent horde of loathsome spiders/ Comes to spin their webs in the depths of our brains-
And a silent horde of loathsome spiders/ Comes to spin their webs in the depths of our brains-
All at once the bells leap with rage, And hurl a frightful roar at heaven
(baudelaire, "spleen")
***
2 comments:
on a less sophisticated level:
baudelaire: :"There is an invincible taste for prostitution in the heart of man, from which comes his horror of solitude. He wants to be 'two'. The man of genius wants to be 'one'... It is this horror of solitude, the need to lose oneself in the external flesh, that man nobly calls 'the need to love'."
crap. "horror of solitude" resonates with me a bit too much...
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