The Songs of Maldoror
Song I
Chapter 1
May heaven grant that the reader, emboldened and grown fierce for a moment like what he reads, finds his steep and wild path through the desolate swamps of these dark, poison-laden pages without losing his way; for unless he brings to his reading a rigorous logic and a mental tension at least equal to his wariness, the deadly fumes of this book will soak into his soul as water seeps into sugar. It’s not good for everyone to read the pages that follow; only a few will savor this bitter fruit without peril. So, timid soul, before venturing deeper into such uncharted wastelands, turn your heels backward, not forward. Listen well to what I tell you: turn your heels backward, not forward, like the eyes of a son respectfully averting from the august sight of his mother’s face; or rather, like an endless wedge of shivering cranes, deep in thought, which in winter flies powerfully through the silence, sails full spread, toward a fixed point on the horizon, where suddenly a strange, fierce wind bursts forth, heralding the storm. The oldest crane, forming the vanguard alone, sees this and shakes her head like a reasoning being — her beak, too, which she clacks in discontent (nor would I be pleased in her place) — while her aged neck, bare of feathers and witness to three generations of cranes, ripples in irritated waves that foretell the nearing tempest. Having coolly scanned all directions several times with eyes full of experience, she prudently takes the lead (for she alone has the privilege of showing her tail feathers to the lesser cranes behind), and with her vigilant cry, like a melancholy sentinel driving back the common foe, she deftly shifts the tip of the geometric shape—perhaps a triangle, though the third side, traced by these curious travelers in space, remains unseen — either to port or starboard, like a skilled captain; and, maneuvering with wings no larger than a sparrow’s, for she’s no fool, she thus charts another path, philosophical and safer.
Chapter 2
Reader, perhaps it’s hatred you wish me to summon at the start of this work! What tells you that you won’t breathe it in, steeped in countless pleasures, as much as you desire, with your proud, wide, and gaunt nostrils, flipping belly-up like a shark in the beautiful black air, as if you grasped the importance of this act and the no lesser importance of your rightful appetite, slowly and majestically inhaling its red fumes? I assure you, they’ll delight the two shapeless holes of your hideous snout, O monster, if only you first apply yourself to breathing three thousand times in a row the cursed conscience of the Eternal! Your nostrils, stretched wide with unspeakable satisfaction and motionless ecstasy, will demand nothing better from the air, now scented with perfumes and incense; for they’ll be filled with complete bliss, like the angels dwelling in the splendor and peace of pleasant heavens.
Chapter 3
In a few lines, I’ll show how Maldoror was good in his early years, when he lived happily — that’s done. Then he realized he was born wicked: an extraordinary fate! He hid his nature as long as he could, for many years; but in the end, because of this strain so unnatural to him, the blood rushed to his head each day, until, unable to bear such a life any longer, he threw himself boldly into the path of evil… a sweet atmosphere! Who’d have thought it! When he kissed a rosy-cheeked child, he longed to slice off its cheeks with a razor, and he’d have done it often, had Justice, with its long procession of punishments, not held him back each time. He wasn’t a liar—he admitted the truth and said he was cruel. Humans, did you hear that? He dares say it again with this trembling pen! So there’s a power stronger than will… Curse it! Could a stone escape the laws of gravity? Impossible. Impossible, too, if evil tried to join with good. That’s what I said before.
Chapter 4
Some write to chase human applause, using noble qualities of the heart that imagination invents or that they might possess. I turn my genius to painting the delights of cruelty! Delights not fleeting or artificial, but ones that began with man and will end with him. Can’t genius join with cruelty in the secret designs of Providence? Or, because someone is cruel, can’t they have genius? You’ll see the proof in my words; it’s up to you to listen, if you care to… Forgive me, it felt as if my hair stood on end; but it’s nothing, for with my hand I easily smoothed it back down. He who sings doesn’t claim his tunes are something new; on the contrary, he prides himself that the proud and wicked thoughts of his hero dwell in every man.
Chapter 5
Throughout my life, I’ve seen every single man — narrow-shouldered — commit countless stupid acts, dulling their fellows and twisting souls by every means. They call the reasons for their actions glory. Watching these scenes, I wanted to laugh like the others; but that strange imitation was impossible. I took a penknife with a sharp-edged blade and slit the flesh where my lips meet. For a moment, I thought I’d reached my goal. I looked in a mirror at that mouth, mangled by my own will! It was a mistake! The blood gushing from both wounds made it impossible to tell if this was truly the laughter of others. But after a few moments of comparison, I saw clearly that my laugh didn’t resemble theirs — I wasn’t laughing. I’ve seen men with ugly heads and terrible eyes sunk deep in dark sockets outdo the hardness of rock, the rigidity of molten steel, the cruelty of sharks, the insolence of youth, the mad fury of criminals, the treachery of hypocrites, the wildest actors, the strength of priests’ character, and beings most hidden from the world, coldest of earth and sky — wearing out moralists trying to uncover their hearts and bringing down upon themselves the relentless wrath from above. I’ve seen them all at once, sometimes with the sturdiest fist raised to the heavens, like a perverse child against his mother, likely spurred by some hellish spirit, their eyes brimming with stinging remorse and hatred, in icy silence, not daring to voice the vast, ungrateful thoughts their chests held, so full of injustice and horror they saddened the God of mercy with pity; sometimes, at every hour of the day, from childhood’s start to old age’s end, hurling unbelievable curses — lacking all sense — against everything that breathes, against themselves, against Providence, prostituting women and children, and so dishonoring the parts of the body meant for modesty. Then the seas swell their waters, swallowing planks in their depths; hurricanes and earthquakes topple houses; plague and countless diseases cut down praying families. But men don’t notice. I’ve seen them too, blushing and paling with shame for their conduct on this earth—rarely. Tempests, sisters of hurricanes; bluish firmament, whose beauty I deny; treacherous sea, mirror of my heart; earth with your mysterious core; dwellers of the spheres; entire universe; God, who crafted you with splendor — it’s you I call: show me a man who is good!... But let your grace multiply my natural strength tenfold; for at the sight of such a monster, I might die of astonishment — lesser things have killed.
Chapter 6
You must let your nails grow for fifteen days. Oh, how sweet it is to rip a child from his bed — one with nothing yet on his upper lip — and, with wide-open eyes, pretend to gently stroke his forehead, pushing back his lovely hair! Then, all at once, when he least expects it, sink your long nails into his soft chest, just so he doesn’t die; for if he died, you couldn’t later witness his misery. Next, you drink the blood, licking the wounds; and during this time, which should last as long as eternity endures, the child weeps. Nothing tastes as good as his blood, drawn as I’ve just described, still warm — unless it’s his tears, bitter as salt. Man, haven’t you ever tasted your own blood when you accidentally cut your finger? How good it is, isn’t it — since it has no taste at all. And don’t you remember once, in your grim thoughts, pressing your hollowed hand to your sickly face, wet with what fell from your eyes; that hand then inevitably moving to your mouth, which drank deeply from that trembling cup — shaking like the teeth of a student glancing sidelong at the one born to oppress him—your tears? How good they are, aren’t they — since they taste like vinegar. They’re like the tears of the one who loves most; but a child’s tears please the palate more. He doesn’t betray, not yet knowing evil; the one who loves most betrays sooner or later… I guess this by analogy, though I don’t know what friendship or love are (I’ll likely never accept them, at least not from the human race). So, since your blood and tears don’t disgust you, feed—feed with confidence — on the tears and blood of the youth. Blindfold him while you tear his quivering flesh; and after listening for hours to his sublime cries, like the piercing groans torn from the throats of dying wounded in battle, then, stepping aside like an avalanche, you’ll rush from the next room, pretending to come to his aid. You’ll untie his hands, swollen with strained nerves and veins, restore sight to his wild eyes, and start licking his tears and blood again. How real the remorse feels then! The divine spark within us, so rarely seen, reveals itself — too late! How the heart swells to console the innocent you’ve harmed: “Youth, who just endured cruel pain, who could have committed such a crime against you — one I can’t even name! Wretched as you are! How you must suffer! If your mother knew this, she’d be no closer to death — so dreaded by the guilty — than I am now. Alas! What are good and evil? Are they the same thing, through which we furiously show our weakness and our passion to reach the infinite by even the maddest means? Or are they two different things? Yes… let them be one and the same… for if not, what will become of me on judgment day! Youth, forgive me; it’s the one before your noble, sacred face who broke your bones and tore the flesh hanging from your body. Was it the delirium of my sick mind, or some secret instinct beyond my reasoning — like an eagle tearing its prey — that drove me to this crime? Yet I suffered as much as my victim! Youth, forgive me. Once we leave this fleeting life, I want us entwined for eternity, fused into one being, my mouth pressed to yours. Even then, my punishment won’t be complete. You’ll tear me apart, never stopping, with teeth and nails together. I’ll deck my body with scented garlands for this atoning sacrifice; and we’ll both suffer — me from being torn, you from tearing me… my mouth pressed to yours. O youth with blond hair and gentle eyes, will you now do what I advise? Despite yourself, I want you to, and it will ease my conscience.” Having spoken thus, you’ll have harmed a human being and be loved by that same being: it’s the greatest happiness you can imagine. Later, you can send him to a hospital; for the crippled boy won’t earn a living. They’ll call you good, and laurel crowns and gold medals will hide your bare feet, scattered over the great tomb with its aged face. O you, whose name I won’t write on this page that sanctifies the holiness of crime, I know your forgiveness was vast as the universe. But I still exist!
Chapter 7
I made a pact with prostitution to sow chaos in families. I recall the night before that dangerous bond. Before me stood a tomb. I heard a glowworm, big as a house, say to me: “I’ll light your way. Read the inscription. This supreme command doesn’t come from me.” A vast blood-red light, at the sight of which my jaws chattered and my arms fell limp, spread through the air to the horizon. I leaned against a ruined wall, for I was about to collapse, and read: “Here lies a youth who died of consumption: you know why. Do not pray for him.” Many men might not have had my courage. Meanwhile, a beautiful naked woman came and lay at my feet. I said to her, with a mournful face: “You can get up.” I offered her the hand with which a brother-killer slits his sister’s throat. The glowworm said to me: “You, take a stone and kill her.” “Why?” I asked. He replied: “Beware; the weakest, because I’m the strongest. This one’s called Prostitution.” With tears in my eyes and rage in my heart, I felt an unknown strength rise within me. I grabbed a heavy stone; after great effort, I lifted it with difficulty to my chest, then hoisted it onto my shoulder with my arms. I climbed a mountain to its peak; from there, I crushed the glowworm. Its head sank into the ground a man’s length; the stone bounced up to the height of six churches. It landed in a lake, where the waters sank for a moment, swirling, carving an immense inverted cone. Calm returned to the surface; the blood-red light faded. “Alas! Alas!” cried the beautiful naked woman. “What have you done?” I said to her: “I choose you over him, because I pity the wretched. It’s not your fault eternal justice made you.” She said to me: “One day, men will do me justice; I’ll say no more. Let me go hide my endless sorrow at the bottom of the sea. Only you and the hideous monsters swarming in those dark depths don’t despise me. You are good. Farewell, you who loved me!” I said to her: “Farewell! Once more: farewell! I’ll always love you!... From this day, I abandon virtue.” That’s why, O peoples, when you hear the winter wind moan over the sea and near its shores, or above great cities long in mourning for me, or through the cold polar regions, say: “It’s not the spirit of God passing by — it’s only the sharp sigh of prostitution, mingled with the deep groans of the Montevidean.” Children, it’s I who tell you this. Then, filled with mercy, kneel; and let men, more numerous than lice, offer long prayers.
Chapter 8
By moonlight, near the sea, in the lonely corners of the countryside, you see everything take on yellow, vague, fantastic shapes, sunk in bitter thoughts. The shadow of trees—sometimes fast, sometimes slow— runs, comes, returns in different forms, flattening itself, clinging to the ground. Back when the wings of youth carried me, it made me dream, struck me as strange; now I’m used to it. The wind moans its languid notes through the leaves, and the owl sings its deep lament, making the hair stand on end for those who hear it. Then dogs, driven mad, snap their chains, escape from distant farms; they race through the fields, here and there, gripped by frenzy. Suddenly they stop, glaring around with wild unease, eyes ablaze; and just as elephants, before dying, cast a final look at the sky in the desert, desperately raising their trunks, leaving their ears limp, so the dogs leave their ears limp, lift their heads, swell their fearsome necks, and begin to bark — sometimes like a child crying from hunger, sometimes like a cat wounded in the belly atop a roof, sometimes like a woman about to give birth, sometimes like a plague-stricken man dying in a hospital, sometimes like a girl singing a sublime tune — against the stars in the north, the stars in the east, the stars in the south, the stars in the west; against the moon; against the mountains, like giant rocks lying far off in the dark; against the cold air they gulp down, turning the inside of their nostrils red and burning; against the silence of the night; against the owls, whose slanting flight grazes their snouts, carrying a rat or frog in their beaks — living food, sweet for their young; against the hares that vanish in a blink; against the thief galloping off on his horse after a crime; against the snakes stirring the heather, making their skin shudder and teeth grind; against their own barking, which terrifies even them; against the toads they crush with a sharp snap of their jaws (why did they stray from the swamp?); against the trees, whose swaying leaves hold mysteries they can’t grasp, longing to uncover with their fixed, clever eyes; against the spiders, dangling between long legs, climbing trees to escape; against the crows, who found no food by day and return to their roost with weary wings; against the coastal rocks; against the fires flickering on the masts of unseen ships; against the dull roar of the waves; against the great fish, swimming, showing their black backs before sinking into the abyss; and against the man who keeps them enslaved. After that, they race through the fields again, leaping with bloodied paws over ditches, paths, meadows, grasses, and jagged stones. You’d think them rabid, seeking a vast pond to quench their thirst. Their endless howls horrify nature. Woe to the belated traveler! The friends of graveyards will pounce on him, tear him apart, devour him with mouths dripping blood—for their teeth aren’t rotten. Wild beasts, too scared to join the feast of flesh, flee out of sight, trembling. After a few hours, the dogs — worn out from racing everywhere, nearly dead, tongues lolling — turn on each other, not knowing what they’re doing, and rip themselves into a thousand shreds with incredible speed. They don’t act this way out of cruelty. One day, with glassy eyes, my mother said to me: “When you’re in bed and hear the dogs barking in the countryside, hide under your blanket, don’t mock what they do: they have an insatiable thirst for the infinite, like you, like me, like the rest of us humans with pale, drawn faces. I even let you stand at the window to watch this sight — it’s sublime enough.” Since then, I’ve honored the dead woman’s wish. I, like the dogs, feel the need for the infinite… I can’t, I can’t satisfy that need! I’m the son of man and woman, so they tell me. It shocks me… I thought I was something more! But what does it matter where I come from? If it were up to me, I’d rather be the son of a shark bitch, whose hunger befriends storms, and a tiger, famed for its cruelty — I wouldn’t be so wicked then. You who watch me, keep your distance, for my breath exhales a poisoned gust. No one has yet seen the green wrinkles on my brow or the jutting bones of my gaunt face, like the ribs of some great fish, or the rocks lining the seashore, or the steep Alpine peaks I often roamed when my hair was a different color. And when I prowl around human dwellings on stormy nights, eyes burning, hair lashed by the tempest’s wind, alone like a stone in the road, I cover my withered face with a piece of velvet, black as the soot clogging chimney flues: no eyes should witness the ugliness the Supreme Being, with a smile of fierce hatred, has set upon me. Each morning, when the sun rises for others, spreading joy and healing warmth through all of nature, while not a muscle stirs on my face, staring fixedly into the darkness-filled void, crouched near the back of my beloved cave in a despair that intoxicates me like wine, I claw at my tattered chest with my strong hands. Yet I know I’m not rabid! Yet I know I’m not the only one who suffers! Yet I know I breathe! Like a condemned man testing his muscles, pondering his fate, soon to climb the scaffold, I stand on my straw bed, eyes closed, slowly turning my neck from right to left, left to right, for hours on end — I don’t drop dead. Every so often, when my neck can’t keep turning one way and stops to shift the other, I glance sharply at the horizon through the rare gaps in the thick brush covering the entrance: I see nothing! Nothing… except fields swirling with trees and long lines of birds slicing through the air. It stirs my blood and brain… Who’s striking my head with an iron bar, like a hammer pounding an anvil?
Chapter 9
I plan, without emotion, to recite aloud the serious, cold stanza you’re about to hear. You, pay attention to what it holds, and beware the painful mark it will surely leave, like a scar, on your troubled minds. Don’t think I’m about to die, for I’m not yet a skeleton, and old age hasn’t settled on my brow. So let’s set aside any comparison to the swan when its life takes flight, and see before you only a monster—whose face I’m glad you can’t glimpse; though it’s less hideous than his soul. Still, I’m not a criminal… Enough on that. Not long ago, I saw the sea again and walked the decks of ships, my memories as sharp as if I’d left it yesterday. Yet, if you can, stay as calm as I am in this reading I already regret offering you, and don’t blush at the thought of what the human heart is. O octopus with silken eyes! You, whose soul is inseparable from mine; you, the fairest dweller of this earthly globe, commanding a harem of four hundred suckers; you, in whom the sweet gift of connection and divine graces sit nobly, as in their natural home, bound by an unbreakable tie — why aren’t you here with me, your mercury belly pressed to my aluminum chest, both of us perched on some coastal rock, gazing at this sight I adore!
Old ocean, with crystal waves, you’re like — by proportion — those azure marks seen on the bruised backs of cabin boys; you’re a vast blue smeared across the earth’s body — I love that image. At first sight, a long breath of sorrow, mistaken for the murmur of your gentle breeze, sweeps over the deeply shaken soul, leaving indelible traces, and you call to your lovers’ minds — often without their knowing — the harsh beginnings of man, when he first meets pain that never leaves. I greet you, old ocean!
Old ocean, your harmonious spherical shape, delighting the stern face of geometry, reminds me too much of human eyes — small like a boar’s, circular like a night bird’s in their perfect outline. Yet man has thought himself beautiful through every age. I’d say he believes in his beauty only out of pride; he’s not truly beautiful and suspects it — why else does he look at his fellow man with such contempt? I greet you, old ocean!
Old ocean, you’re a symbol of sameness: ever true to yourself. You don’t shift in any vital way, and if your waves rage somewhere, elsewhere, in another stretch, they rest in utter calm. You’re not like man, who stops in the street to watch two bulldogs grapple at the throat but passes by a funeral; who’s approachable this morning and sour tonight; who laughs today and weeps tomorrow. I greet you, old ocean!
Old ocean, it’s not impossible you hide in your depths future gifts for man. You’ve already given him the whale. You don’t easily let the greedy eyes of natural science guess the thousand secrets of your inner workings — you’re modest. Man boasts endlessly, and over trifles. I greet you, old ocean!
Old ocean, the varied fish you nurture haven’t sworn brotherhood among themselves. Each kind keeps to its own. Their differing temperaments and forms explain well what first seems an oddity. It’s the same with man, who lacks such excuses. If thirty million humans fill a patch of land, they feel bound to ignore the lives of neighbors rooted to the next patch. From great to small, every man lives like a savage in his den, rarely stepping out to visit his fellow, crouched much the same in another lair. The grand universal family of humanity is a utopia fit for the dullest logic. What’s more, the sight of your fertile breasts stirs the idea of ingratitude; it brings to mind those many parents, ungrateful enough to the Creator to abandon the fruit of their wretched union. I greet you, old ocean!
Old ocean, your physical vastness can only be matched by the measure of active power needed to birth your entire mass. No single glance can take you in. To behold you, the eye must turn its telescope steadily toward the four corners of the horizon, just as a mathematician, solving an algebraic equation, must examine each case separately before cracking the puzzle. Man eats hearty foods and makes other efforts—worthy of a better fate — to look plump. Let that charming frog puff herself up as she pleases. Rest easy—she’ll never match your size; I assume so, at least. I greet you, old ocean!
Old ocean, your waters are bitter. They taste exactly like the bile criticism spills over fine arts, sciences, everything. If someone has genius, they call him an idiot; if another’s body is fine, he’s a hideous hunchback. Sure, man must keenly feel his flaws — three-quarters his own fault—to critique them so! I greet you, old ocean!
Old ocean, men, despite their fine methods, haven’t yet managed, even with science’s tools, to measure the dizzying depths of your chasms; some are too deep for even the longest, heaviest probes to reach. Fish can go there… not men. I’ve often wondered what’s easier to fathom: the depth of the ocean or the depth of the human heart! Often, hand on brow, standing on ships as the moon rocked unevenly between the masts, I’ve caught myself — ignoring all but the question I chased — struggling to solve this tough riddle! Yes, which is deeper, more impenetrable: the ocean or the human heart? If thirty years of life’s experience can tip the scales one way or another, I’d say that, despite the ocean’s depth, it can’t compare to the human heart’s when it comes to that trait. I’ve known virtuous men. They died at sixty, and everyone cried out: “They did good on this earth — meaning they practiced charity; that’s all, it’s no trick, anyone can do it.” Who can grasp why two lovers, adoring each other yesterday, split over a misheard word—one heading east, the other west — with the stings of hatred, revenge, love, and remorse, never to meet again, each cloaked in lonely pride? It’s a daily miracle, no less miraculous for it. Who can grasp why we relish not just the broad misfortunes of our kind but the private woes of our dearest friends, while grieving them too? One undeniable example to cap it off: man says yes with his lips and thinks no in his heart. That’s why humanity’s boars trust each other so much and aren’t selfish. Psychology still has far to go. I greet you, old ocean!
Old ocean, you’re so mighty that men have learned it the hard way. They can throw all their genius at you — still powerless to tame you. They’ve met their master. I say they’ve found something stronger than themselves. That something has a name. That name is: ocean! The fear you strike in them is so great they respect you. Even so, you make their heaviest machines dance with grace, elegance, and ease. You send them flipping skyward in gymnastic leaps and diving marvelously to your depths—a circus acrobat would be jealous. Lucky are they when you don’t wrap them forever in your churning folds, off to see — without a railway — how the fish fare in your watery guts, and how they fare themselves. Man says: “I’m smarter than the ocean.” Maybe; it’s even half-true; but the ocean terrifies him more than he does it — that needs no proof. This watchful patriarch, born with the earth’s first days, smiles with pity at the naval battles of nations. Here come a hundred leviathans, forged by human hands. The grand orders of captains, the cries of the wounded, the cannon blasts — it’s all noise meant to kill a few seconds. The drama’s done, it seems, and the ocean has swallowed it all. That maw is fearsome. It must widen downward, toward the unknown! To crown this dull comedy — not even worth watching — you see, high in the air, a stork, slowed by exhaustion, crying out without halting her wide-winged flight: “Well now!… That’s bad! There were black dots below; I closed my eyes — they’re gone.” I greet you, old ocean!
Old ocean, O great bachelor, as you roam the solemn solitude of your calm realms, you rightly take pride in your native splendor and the honest praise I hasten to give. Rocked sensuously by the soft currents of your majestic slowness — the grandest gift of the sovereign power that blessed you — you unfurl across your sublime surface, amid a dark mystery, your matchless waves, calmly aware of your eternal might. They roll in parallel, parted by brief gaps. As one fades, another rises to meet it, joined by the mournful sound of melting foam, warning us that all is foam. (So too, humans, those living waves, die one by one, in dull succession; but leave no frothy noise.) The passing bird rests on them with trust, letting their proud, graceful motion carry it until the bones of its wings regain their usual strength to resume its skyward journey. I wish human majesty were but the echo of yours. I ask much, and this honest wish honors you. Your moral grandeur, a mirror of the infinite, is vast as a philosopher’s thought, a woman’s love, a bird’s divine beauty, a poet’s musings. You’re more beautiful than the night. Answer me, ocean, will you be my brother? Stir yourself fiercely… more… even more, if you want me to liken you to God’s vengeance; stretch out your livid claws, carving a path across your own chest… good. Unleash your dreadful waves, hideous ocean, understood by me alone, before whom I fall, prostrate at your knees. Man’s majesty is borrowed; it won’t sway me — you do. Oh, when you surge forward, crest high and terrible, ringed by your twisting coils like a fierce enchanter, rolling your waves one over another, aware of what you are, while from your depths, as if crushed by a fierce remorse I can’t fathom, you let out that ceaseless dull roar men dread so much, even watching you safely, trembling on the shore — then I see that the proud right to call myself your equal isn’t mine. That’s why, faced with your greatness, I’d give you all my love (and none know the depth of love my longing for beauty holds), if you didn’t make me ache with thoughts of my kind, who form with you the sharpest irony, the most absurd contrast creation’s ever seen: I can’t love you — I hate you. Why do I return to you, a thousandth time, to your friendly arms that part to soothe my burning brow, easing the fever at their touch? I don’t know your hidden fate; all about you grips me. Tell me then, are you the lair of the prince of darkness? Tell me… tell me, ocean (to me alone, so as not to grieve those who’ve known only illusions), if Satan’s breath stirs the storms that lift your salty waves to the clouds. You must tell me, for I’d rejoice to know hell so near to man. I want this to be the last stanza of my invocation. So, just once more, I’ll greet you and bid you farewell! Old ocean, with crystal waves… My eyes well with heavy tears, and I lack the strength to go on; for I feel the time has come to return among men, brutal in their look — but courage! Let’s make a great effort and fulfill, with a sense of duty, our fate on this earth. I greet you, old ocean!
Chapter 10
You won’t see me, in my final hour (I write this on my deathbed), surrounded by priests. I want to die rocked by the waves of a stormy sea or standing on a mountain… eyes upward — no: I know my annihilation will be complete. Besides, I’d have no mercy to hope for. Who’s opening the door to my funeral chamber? I said no one should enter. Whoever you are, get away; but if you think you see any trace of pain or fear on my hyena’s face (I use that comparison, though a hyena is prettier and pleasanter to look at than I am), think again — let him come closer. It’s a winter night, when the elements clash from every side, when man trembles, and a youth plots some crime against a friend — if he’s what I was in my youth. Let the wind, whose mournful whistles have saddened humanity since wind and humanity began, a few moments before my last breath, carry me on the bones of its wings across the world, eager for my death. I’ll still secretly relish the many examples of human wickedness (a brother loves to watch his brothers’ deeds unseen). The eagle, the raven, the immortal pelican, the wild duck, the wandering crane—awake, shivering with cold — will see me pass in the lightning’s glare, a ghastly, grinning ghost. They won’t know what it means. On land, the viper, the toad’s bulging eye, the tiger, the elephant; in the sea, the whale, the shark, the hammerfish, the shapeless ray, the polar seal’s teeth — they’ll wonder at this breach of nature’s law. Man, trembling, will press his forehead to the ground amid his groans. “Yes, I outstrip you all with my inborn cruelty — cruelty I couldn’t erase. Is that why you bow before me in this groveling? Or is it because you see me sweep through space, a new terror like a frightful comet, blood-soaked? (A rain of blood falls from my vast body, like a dark cloud driven by a hurricane.) Don’t fear, children — I won’t curse you. The harm you’ve done me is too great, too great the harm I’ve done you, for it to be willful. You walked your path, I mine — both alike, both perverse. We were bound to meet in this likeness of spirit; the clash that followed was fatal to us both.” Then men will slowly lift their heads, gathering courage to see who speaks like this, craning their necks like snails. Suddenly their burning, twisted faces, baring the wildest passions, will contort so fiercely that wolves will cower. They’ll rise as one, like a giant spring. What curses! What tearing cries! They’ve recognized me. Now the earth’s beasts join the men, their strange clamor rising. No more mutual hatred; both hates turn against the common foe — me. They draw near in universal agreement. Winds holding me up, lift me higher — I fear treachery. Yes, let’s fade from their sight bit by bit, witness once more to the fruits of passion, wholly satisfied… I thank you, O horseshoe bat, for waking me with the flutter of your wings, you whose nose bears a horseshoe crest: I see now, sadly, it was only a fleeting illness, and I feel myself reborn to life with disgust. Some say you came to suck the little blood left in my body — why isn’t that guess the truth!
Chapter 11
A family gathers around a lamp on the table:
— “My son, give me the scissors on that chair.”
— “They’re not there, Mother.”
— “Then go fetch them from the other room. Do you remember, my gentle master, that time we made vows to have a child — a second life for us, a support in our old age?”
— “I remember, and God granted our wish. We’ve no cause to complain of our lot on this earth. Each day we bless Providence for its gifts. Our Édouard has all his mother’s graces.”
— “And his father’s strong traits.”
— “Here are the scissors, Mother; I finally found them.”
He returns to his work… But someone steps to the front door and gazes for a moment at the scene unfolding before his eyes:
— “What does this sight mean! Many are less happy than these people. What reasoning do they use to love life? Get away, Maldoror, from this peaceful hearth — your place isn’t here.”
He withdraws!
— “I don’t know why, but I feel human faculties clashing in my heart. My soul’s restless, and I don’t know why; the air feels heavy.”
— “Wife, I feel the same as you; I’m afraid some misfortune is coming. Let’s trust in God — our highest hope lies in Him.”
— “Mother, I can hardly breathe; my head hurts.”
— “You too, my son! I’ll wet your forehead and temples with vinegar.”
— “No, good Mother…”
Look—he leans his body against the chair’s back, weary.
— “Something’s twisting inside me—I can’t explain it. Now even the smallest thing bothers me.”
— “How pale you are! This night won’t end without some grim event plunging us all into despair’s abyss! I hear distant, drawn-out cries of the sharpest pain.”
— “My son!”
— “Oh! Mother!… I’m scared!”
— “Tell me quick if you’re in pain.”
— “Mother, I’m not in pain… I’m not telling the truth.”
The father stares in shock:
— “Those are cries you sometimes hear in the silence of starless nights. Though we hear them, whoever makes them isn’t near; these moans can carry three leagues, borne by the wind from one city to another. I’d often heard of this mystery but never had the chance to judge it myself. Wife, you spoke of misfortune—if a truer misfortune ever wound through time’s long spiral, it’s the one troubling his fellows’ sleep now…”
I hear distant, drawn-out cries of the sharpest pain.
— “May heaven forbid his birth be a calamity for the land that cast him out. He roams from country to country, despised everywhere. Some say he’s borne a kind of primal madness since childhood. Others believe he’s gripped by an extreme, instinctive cruelty he’s ashamed of, that killed his parents with grief. Some claim he was branded with a nickname in his youth, inconsolable ever since, seeing in it stark proof of human wickedness that starts early and grows. That nickname was the vampire!…”
I hear distant, drawn-out cries of the sharpest pain.
— “They add that days and nights, without rest, horrible nightmares make blood stream from his mouth and ears; that specters sit by his bed and hurl that ever-living, ever-hideous nickname at his face — driven against their will by some unknown force — sometimes in a soft voice, sometimes roaring like battle cries, with relentless persistence. Some even say love brought him to this state, or that these cries confess remorse for a crime buried in his shadowy past. But most think a boundless pride torments him, like Satan once, longing to rival God…”
I hear distant, drawn-out cries of the sharpest pain.
— “My son, these are rare secrets; I pity your age for hearing them, and I hope you’ll never follow that man.”
— “Speak, O my Édouard; promise you’ll never follow that man.”
— “O beloved Mother, who gave me life, I swear — if a child’s holy promise means anything — I’ll never follow that man.”
— “Perfect, my son; you must obey your mother in all things.”
The moans fade away.
— “Wife, have you finished your work?”
— “A few stitches left on this shirt, though we’ve stretched this evening late.”
— “I haven’t finished my chapter either. Let’s use the lamp’s last light — there’s barely any oil left—and complete our tasks…”
The child cries out:
— “If God lets us live!”
— “Radiant angel, come to me; you’ll roam the meadow from dawn to dusk, free from work. My grand palace is built with silver walls, golden columns, and diamond doors. You’ll sleep whenever you like to heavenly music, no prayers needed. When morning brings the sun’s bright rays and the joyful lark lifts its cry skyward, lost in the distance, you can stay in bed till you’re weary. You’ll tread on the finest rugs, wrapped always in an air of sweet flower essences.”
— “Time to rest body and mind. Rise, mother of the house, on your sturdy ankles. It’s fair your stiff fingers drop the needle from such heavy work. Extremes do no good.”
— “Oh, how sweet your life will be! I’ll give you a magic ring; turn its ruby, and you’ll vanish like princes in fairy tales.”
— “Put your daily tools in the safeguarding cupboard while I tidy my things.”
— “Set it back as usual, and you’ll reappear as nature shaped you, O young sorcerer — because I love you and yearn to make you happy.”
— “Get away, whoever you are; don’t grab my shoulders.”
— “My son, don’t drift off, lulled by childhood dreams — the family prayer hasn’t begun, and your clothes aren’t neatly laid on a chair yet… Kneel! Eternal Creator of the universe, your boundless kindness shines even in the smallest things.”
— “You don’t love clear streams where thousands of little fish glide — red, blue, silver? You’ll catch them with a net so fine it draws them in till it’s full. From above, you’ll see gleaming pebbles, smoother than marble.”
— “Mother, look at those claws; I don’t trust him, but my conscience is clear — I’ve nothing to blame myself for.”
— “Here we kneel before you, humbled by your greatness. If a proud thought creeps into our minds, we spit it out with scorn and offer it to you forever.”
— “You’ll bathe with little girls who’ll wrap you in their arms. Out of the water, they’ll weave you crowns of roses and carnations. They’ll have butterfly wings, sheer and shimmering, and wavy hair flowing long around their gentle brows.”
— “Even if your palace outshone crystal, I wouldn’t leave this home to follow you. I think you’re a fraud, speaking so softly to hide your voice. Abandoning parents is wrong — I’d never be an ungrateful son. As for your little girls, they’re not as lovely as my mother’s eyes.”
— “All our lives we’ve poured out hymns to your glory. As we’ve been till now, so we’ll be until you call us from this earth.”
— “They’ll obey your slightest nod, thinking only of pleasing you. Want the bird that never rests? They’ll bring it. Want the snow chariot that speeds to the sun in a flash? They’ll bring it. What wouldn’t they bring! They’d even bring the kite, vast as a tower, hidden in the moon, its tail strung with silk threads holding birds of every kind. Watch yourself… heed my advice.”
— “Do what you will; I won’t break the prayer to call for help. Though your body fades when I push it away, know I don’t fear you.”
— “Before you, nothing’s great but the flame rising from a pure heart.”
— “Think on what I’ve said, or you’ll regret it.”
— “Heavenly Father, ward off, ward off the woes that might crash upon our family.”
— “Won’t you leave, evil spirit?”
— “Keep this cherished wife who’s eased my despair…”
— “Since you refuse me, I’ll make you weep and gnash your teeth like a hanged man.”
— “And this loving son, whose innocent lips barely part for life’s dawn kisses.”
— “Mother, he’s choking me… Father, help me… I can’t breathe… Your blessing!”
A vast cry of irony rises into the air. Look — eagles, dazed, tumble from the clouds, spinning as they fall, struck down by the blast of wind.
— “His heart’s stopped… And she’s dead too, with the fruit Major New of her womb—fruit I can’t recognize, so twisted it’s become… My wife!… My son!… I recall a distant time when I was a husband and father.”
He’d told himself, facing the scene before his eyes, that he couldn’t bear this injustice. If the power granted by infernal spirits—or rather drawn from himself—works, that child, before the night ends, should be no more.
Chapter 12
He who doesn’t know how to weep (for he’s always pushed suffering inward) noticed he was in Norway. In the Faroe Islands, he watched the hunt for seabird nests in sheer cliffs and marveled that the three-hundred-meter rope holding the explorer above the abyss was chosen so sturdy. Whatever anyone says, he saw in it a striking example of human kindness, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. If it were up to him to prepare that rope, he’d have notched it in several spots so it would snap and hurl the hunter into the sea! One evening, he headed toward a graveyard, and the youths who take pleasure in violating the corpses of recently dead beautiful women could, if they wished, overhear the following conversation, lost in the scene of an action unfolding alongside it.
— “Isn’t it so, gravedigger, that you’ll talk with me? A sperm whale rises slowly from the sea’s depths, showing its head above the waves to see the ship passing through these lonely waters. Curiosity was born with the universe.”
— “Friend, I can’t swap thoughts with you. For a long time now, the moon’s soft rays have gleamed on the marble of these tombs. It’s the quiet hour when many a human dreams of chained women dragging their shrouds, stained with blood like a black sky with stars. The sleeper groans, like a condemned man facing death, until he wakes and sees reality is three times worse than the dream. I must finish digging this pit with my tireless spade so it’s ready by morning. To do serious work, you can’t split your focus.”
— “He thinks digging a pit is serious work! You think digging a pit is serious work!”
— “When the wild pelican resolves to offer its breast to its young to eat, with only the one who crafted such love to shame men as witness — though the sacrifice is great — that act makes sense. When a young man sees the woman he adored in his friend’s arms, he lights a cigar; he stays indoors, binding himself to pain in unbreakable friendship — that act makes sense. When a schoolboy, locked in a lycée, is ruled for years — centuries — from dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn by a pariah of civilization always watching him, he feels the wild tides of a fierce hatred rise like thick smoke to his brain, ready to burst. From the moment he’s thrown into that prison to the nearing day he’ll escape, a relentless fever yellows his face, draws his brows tight, hollows his eyes. At night, he thinks, refusing sleep. By day, his mind leaps over the walls of that stultifying house until he breaks free or they cast him out like a leper from that eternal cloister—that act makes sense. Digging a pit often outstrips nature’s strength. How do you expect, stranger, this pick to shift the earth — which first feeds us, then gives us a cozy bed, safe from the winter wind howling fiercely in these cold lands — when the one wielding it, with trembling hands after groping the cheeks of the once-living who enter his realm all day, sees each night, written in fiery letters on every wooden cross, the fearful riddle humanity hasn’t solved: the mortality or immortality of the soul? The universe’s creator—I’ve always kept my love for him; but if we cease to exist after death, why do I see most nights each grave open, their dwellers gently lifting lead lids to breathe the fresh air?”
— “Stop your work. Emotion’s draining you; you seem frail as a reed — it’d be madness to go on. I’m strong; I’ll take your place. You step aside — guide me if I falter.”
— “How muscled his arms are — what a thrill to watch him dig the earth so easily!”
— “No useless doubt should torment your mind: all these graves scattered through a graveyard, like flowers in a meadow — a flawed comparison — deserve the calm compass of a philosopher’s measure. Dangerous hallucinations can strike by day, but they come most at night. So don’t be shocked by the wild visions your eyes seem to catch. By day, when your spirit rests, ask your conscience; it’ll tell you surely that the God who made man with a spark of His own mind holds boundless kindness and will welcome this masterpiece into His embrace after earthly death. Gravedigger, why do you weep? Why these tears, like a woman’s? Remember this well: we’re on this broken ship to suffer. It’s a merit for man that God deemed him fit to conquer his deepest pains. Speak—and since, by your dearest wish, we wouldn’t suffer, tell me what virtue would be then, that ideal we all strive for, if your tongue works like any man’s.”
— “Where am I? Has my nature changed? I feel a mighty breath of comfort brush my calmed brow, like a spring breeze reviving hope in the old. Who’s this man whose sublime words spoke things no common soul would say? What beauty in the unmatched melody of his voice! I’d rather hear him speak than others sing. Yet the more I watch, the less honest his face seems. The overall cast of his features clashes oddly with words only love for God could inspire. His brow, creased with a few lines, bears an indelible mark. Did that mark, aging him before his time, come from honor or disgrace? Should his wrinkles be revered? I don’t know — and I fear finding out. Though he says what he doesn’t mean, I still think he has reasons for acting so, stirred by the tattered remnants of a charity destroyed within him. He’s lost in thoughts I can’t grasp, doubling his effort in a hard task he’s not used to. Sweat soaks his skin; he doesn’t notice. He’s sadder than the feelings stirred by a child in its cradle. Oh, how dark he is!… Where did you come from?… Stranger, let me touch you — let my hands, which rarely clasp the living, rest on the nobility of your frame. Whatever happens, I’ll know where I stand. This hair’s the finest I’ve ever felt in my life. Who’d dare deny I know hair’s quality?”
— “What do you want from me while I dig a grave? The lion doesn’t like to be teased when it feeds. If you didn’t know, I’m telling you now. Come on, hurry — do what you mean to.”
— “What trembles under my touch, making me tremble too, is flesh, no doubt. It’s true… I’m not dreaming! Who are you, then, bending there to dig a grave while I, like a sloth eating others’ bread, do nothing? It’s time to sleep or sacrifice rest for knowledge. Either way, no one’s away from home or leaves the door open to let thieves in. They lock themselves in their rooms as best they can, while the old chimney’s ashes still warm the room with a last glow. You don’t act like the rest; your clothes mark you from some far-off land.”
— “Though I’m not tired, it’s pointless to dig this pit deeper. Now undress me; then lay me inside.”
— “This talk we’ve had for these few moments is so strange, I don’t know how to answer… I think he’s joking.”
— “Yes, yes, it’s true, I meant to joke — don’t mind what I said.” He slumped, and the gravedigger rushed to hold him up!
— “What’s wrong?”
— “Yes, yes, it’s true, I lied… I was tired when I dropped the pick… it’s my first time at this work… don’t mind what I said.”
— “My hunch grows stronger: he’s someone with awful sorrows. Heaven spare me the thought of questioning him. I’d rather stay unsure — he stirs such pity in me. And he wouldn’t answer, that’s sure: sharing a heart in this state doubles the pain.”
— “Let me leave this graveyard; I’ll go on my way.”
— “Your legs won’t hold you; you’d lose your path as you walk. My duty’s to offer you a rough bed — I’ve no other. Trust me; hospitality won’t pry into your secrets.”
— “O venerable louse, with no wing-covers on your frame, one day you bitterly chided me for not loving your sublime mind enough, so hard to read — maybe you were right, since I don’t even feel gratitude for this man. Beacon of Maldoror, where do you lead his steps?”
— “To my place. Be you a criminal who didn’t wash his right hand with soap after his deed, easy to spot by that hand’s mark; or a brother who’s lost his sister; or some ousted monarch fleeing his realms—my truly grand palace is fit to welcome you. It’s not built of diamond or precious stones, just a poor, shoddily made hut; but this famed hut holds a history the present keeps renewing endlessly. If it could speak, it’d stun you — you, who seem unshocked by anything. How often, alongside it, I’ve watched coffins pass before me, holding bones soon more worm-eaten than my door’s backside I lean against. My countless subjects grow each day. I don’t need regular counts to see it. Here it’s like the living: each pays a tax based on their tomb’s wealth; and if some miser refused his share, I’m ordered, speaking to him, to act like a bailiff — there’s no shortage of jackals and vultures craving a fine meal. I’ve seen them line up under death’s banners: the once-beautiful; the one who didn’t uglify after life; man, woman, beggar, kings’ sons; youth’s illusions, old men’s skeletons; genius, madness; laziness and its opposite; the false, the true; the proud man’s mask, the humble’s modesty; vice crowned with flowers, innocence betrayed.”
— “No, I won’t refuse your bed—it suits me till dawn, which isn’t far off. I thank you for your kindness… Gravedigger, it’s fine to gaze at the ruins of cities; but it’s finer to gaze at the ruins of men!”
Chapter 13
The leech’s brother walked slowly through the forest. He stopped several times, opening his mouth to speak. But each time, his throat tightened, choking back the failed effort. At last, he cried out: “Man, when you find a dead dog flipped over, pressed against a sluice that keeps it from drifting off, don’t — like others — pick up the worms spilling from its swollen belly with your hand, stare at them in wonder, open a knife, and slice open a bunch, telling yourself you’ll be no more than that dog. What mystery are you chasing? Neither I nor the four flippered paws of the polar bear from the Boreal Sea could solve the riddle of life. Watch out — night’s closing in, and you’ve been here since morning. What will your family say, with your little sister, seeing you come so late? Wash your hands, head back to where you sleep… Who’s that being over there on the horizon, daring to approach me without fear, with jagged, tortured leaps — and what majesty, mixed with serene gentleness! His gaze, though soft, is deep. His huge eyelids play with the breeze, seeming alive. He’s unknown to me. As I fix on his monstrous eyes, my body shakes — it’s the first time since I suckled the dry teats of what’s called a mother. A dazzling halo of light surrounds him. When he spoke, all nature fell silent and shuddered hard. Since you’re drawn to me like a magnet, I won’t resist. How beautiful he is! It pains me to say it. You must be mighty; your face is more than human — sad as the universe, beautiful as suicide. I loathe you as much as I can; I’d rather see a snake coiled around my neck since time began than your eyes… What!… It’s you, toad!… Fat toad!… Wretched toad!… Forgive me!… Forgive me!… What are you doing on this earth of the damned? But what have you done with your slimy, stinking pustules to look so gentle? When you came down from above by a higher command, tasked with consoling the races of living beings, you struck the earth swift as a kite, your wings untired from that long, splendid flight — I saw you! Poor toad! How I thought then of the infinite, and my own weakness too. ‘Another one greater than those of earth,’ I told myself, ‘by divine will. Why not me too? What’s the point of injustice in supreme decrees? Is the Creator mad — yet the mightiest, whose wrath is fierce!’ Since you appeared to me, monarch of ponds and marshes! cloaked in glory that’s God’s alone, you’ve partly soothed me; but my faltering reason reels before such grandeur! Who are you? Stay… oh, stay longer on this earth! Fold your white wings, don’t look up with restless lids… If you go, let’s go together!”
The toad sat on its hind legs (so like a man’s!) and, as slugs, woodlice, and snails fled at the sight of their deadly foe, spoke these words: “Maldoror, hear me. Look at my face, calm as a mirror — I think my mind matches yours. Once, you called me the pillar of your life. Since then, I haven’t betrayed the trust you placed in me. I’m just a simple reed-dweller, true; but through your touch, taking only what’s beautiful in you, my reason grew, and I can speak to you. I came to pull you from the abyss. Those who call themselves your friends watch you, stunned with dread, whenever they meet you—pale and stooped — in theaters, public squares, churches, or gripping with tense thighs that horse galloping only at night, bearing its phantom master wrapped in a long black cloak. Drop these thoughts that hollow your heart like a desert; they burn hotter than fire. Your mind’s so sick you don’t see it, thinking yourself normal whenever wild words spill from your mouth — grand with infernal might though they are. Wretch! What have you said since your birth? O sad remnant of an immortal mind, crafted with such love by God! You’ve spawned only curses, more dreadful than the sight of starving panthers! I’d rather have my eyelids glued shut, my body stripped of arms and legs, have killed a man, than not be you! Because I hate you. Why this nature that shocks me? What right have you to come to this earth, mocking its dwellers, you rotten wreck tossed by skepticism? If you don’t like it here, go back to the spheres you came from. A city-dweller shouldn’t live in villages like a stranger. We know there are realms in space vaster than ours, with minds we can’t even fathom. So go!… Leave this shifting ground!… Show at last your divine essence, hidden till now; and soon as you can, soar upward to your sphere — we don’t envy it, proud as you are! For I can’t tell if you’re a man or more than a man! Farewell then; don’t hope to meet this toad again on your path. You’ve caused my death. I’m off to eternity to beg your forgiveness!”
Chapter 14
If it’s sometimes wise to judge by the look of things, this first song ends here. Don’t be harsh on one who’s only testing his lyre — it makes such a strange sound! Still, if you’re fair, you’ll already spot a strong mark amid the flaws. As for me, I’ll get back to work to bring out a second song soon enough, not too delayed. The end of the nineteenth century will see its poet (though at first he mustn’t start with a masterpiece but follow nature’s law); he was born on American shores, at the mouth of the Plata, where two peoples, once rivals, now strive to outdo each other in material and moral progress. Buenos Aires, queen of the South, and Montevideo, the dainty one, clasp friendly hands across the silvery waters of the great estuary. But eternal war has planted its destructive reign over the plains, reaping victims with glee. Farewell, old man, and think of me if you’ve read me. You, young man, don’t despair; for you’ve a friend in the vampire, despite what you think. Counting the scabies mite that brings the itch, you’ll have two friends!