How could I have gone this many years without being acquainted with the work of Baudelaire?...Here in a translation:

"I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother."

Your friends, then?

"You use a word that until now has had no meaning for me."

Your country?

"I am ignorant of the latitude in which it is situated."

The Beauty?

"Her I would love willingly, goddess and immortal."

Gold?

"I hate it as you hate your God"

What then, extraordinary stranger, do you love?

"I love the clouds, the clouds that pass yonder the marvelous clouds."

I think I need to buy the original book in French (Paris Spleen) and read nothing else for a few days. I may have found this guy just in time. I realize I know almost nothing about this writer except that his name is written in bright lights in literary history. I think I'll read him first then learn about him later, so my experience doesn't get too tainted. Too many writers' biographies are stained by poor behaviour: David Foster Wallace, Carver, Hemingway. I'd just as soon delay that disappointment 'till later. It's refreshing, though, to know that a work published a hundred and fifty years ago can find its way to me by the most circuitous of routes and right in the bullseye of my consciousness.