Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Charles Baudelaire's "To the Reader" serves as a prologue to his seminal collection of poems, "Les Fleurs du Mal" (The Flowers of Evil). The poem, penned in the 19th century, has remained a provocative and enduring work that explores the complexities of human vices, moral frailties, and existential boredom. Unflinchingly, Baudelaire holds up a mirror to society-and to the reader-revealing a panorama of moral degradation and spiritual malaise.

Baudelaire opens with a catalogue of human failings: "Folly and error, avarice and vice." This introductory line establishes a tone of cynicism and disillusionment that runs throughout the poem. He depicts humanity as being deeply mired in sin and ethical bankruptcy, and in a state of almost irrevocable degradation. But more than merely enumerating sins, Baudelaire argues that we "nourish our innocuous remorse," suggesting that not only do humans commit sins, but they revel in their own moral failures, allowing them to fester and grow.

The image of the Devil as a "Thrice-Great Magician" and "sage alchemist" underlines the idea that evil is not just an external force, but an integral part of human nature. The "rich metal of our own volition" is subjected to the corrupting influence of the Devil, evaporating our innate goodness or potential for it. This presents a grim view of human agency, where individuals are likened to puppets manipulated by the strings of evil forces. Here, free will itself seems to be compromised, as humans are inexorably "jerked" towards hell "through the shades that stink."

Yet, the most damning vice, according to Baudelaire, is not lust, greed, or even violence, but "Boredom." He depicts boredom as a monstrous entity that dreams of "gibbets" and aspires to "swallow up existence with a yawn." In Baudelaire's worldview, boredom is not merely an emotional state, but a symptom of spiritual malaise, a void that seeks to consume everything around it. In an era of Romantic ideals and a growing industrial landscape, this indictment against boredom offers a bleak perspective on the limitations of progress and human endeavor.

Finally, Baudelaire turns the spotlight on the reader, labeling them a "Hypocrite reader"-implicating them in this cycle of vice and spiritual emptiness. The poem concludes by identifying the reader as the poet's "twin" and "brother," emphasizing that the traits and tendencies Baudelaire has outlined are not confined to a particular individual or group but are a collective human failing.

The poem's engagement with existentialism, a school of thought that would only be named years later, is prescient. It touches upon the malaise that underlies human existence, throwing light on the disjunct between societal progress and ethical stagnation. "To the Reader" remains a powerful poetic exploration of human frailty that interrogates our moral compass and questions the capacity for redemption or change. It is an indictment, a caution, and a mirror-all wrapped in a linguistic finesse that only intensifies its unsettling message.

POEM TEXT:

Folly and error, avarice and vice,
Employ our souls and waste our bodies' force.
As mangey beggars incubate their lice,
We nourish our innocuous remorse.

Our sins are stubborn, craven our repentance.
For our weak vows we ask excessive prices.
Trusting our tears will wash away the sentence,
We sneak off where the muddy road entices.

Cradled in evil, that Thrice-Great Magician,
The Devil, rocks our souls, that can't resist;
And the rich metal of our own volition
Is vaporised by that sage alchemist.

The Devil pulls the strings by which we're worked:
By all revolting objects lured, we slink
Hellwards; each day down one more step we're jerked
Feeling no horror, through the shades that stink.

Just as a lustful pauper bites and kisses
The scarred and shrivelled breast of an old whore,
We steal, along the roadside, furtive blisses,
Squeezing them, like stale oranges, for more.

Packed tight, like hives of maggots, thickly seething
Within our brains a host of demons surges.
Deep down into our lungs at every breathing,
Death flows, an unseen river, moaning dirges.

If rape or arson, poison, or the knife
Has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff
Of this drab canvas we accept as life -
It is because we are not bold enough!

Amongst the jackals, leopards, mongrels, apes,
Snakes, scorpions, vultures, that with hellish din,
Squeal, roar, writhe, gambol, crawl, with monstrous shapes,
In each man's foul menagerie of sin -

There's one more damned than all. He never gambols,
Nor crawls, nor roars, but, from the rest withdrawn,
Gladly of this whole earth would make a shambles
And swallow up existence with a yawn...

Boredom! He smokes his hookah, while he dreams
Of gibbets, weeping tears he cannot smother.
You know this dainty monster, too, it seems -
Hypocrite reader! - You! - My twin! - My brother!

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