Recently, even frightened myself by the horror it could inspire, in the proofs I suppressed a third of its entirety. I have reserved one of these last copies, and if you have not yet received it, it is because I wanted to send it to you bound. You know that I always considered that literature and the arts pursue an end foreign to all morality, and that the beauty of conception and style are enough for me. But this book, whose title, The Flowers of Evil, says it all, is clad, as you will see, in a sinister and cold beauty, and has been made with patience and fury. Moreover, the proof of its true worth is in all the bad that is said of it. It opened the way for modern poetry. I have had some small problems, but I estimate that you will be pleased. As for the Poems (published fifteen days ago), at first, as you know, I had no intention of showing it to you. I don't care about all those imbeciles, and I know that this volume, with its virtues and defects, will go far in the memory of the learned public, alongside the best poems by Victor Hugo, Th. Gautier and even Byron. The volume Letters to his Mother —with a translation by Walter Romero— has just been published by Blatt & Ríos. I assure you that you have no reason to be uneasy on my account, but it is you who cause it, and one of the most vivid ones, and, truly, it is not the letter you sent me, full of desolation, the most suitable to appease it. Nothing is recognizable in it, not even the capacity for invention and even the proper knowledge of the French language. Besides, I wanted to write to you, send you your prayer book and also my book of poems. The prayer book is not quite finished; the workers, even the most intelligent, are so brutish that I had to rectify a few little things. If you continue like this, you will fall ill, and that will be the worst of misfortunes, and for me the most unbearable of anxieties. As for my silence, do not look for the reason elsewhere than in one of those languors that, to my dishonor, seize me at times and prevent me from not only devoting myself to any work, but also fulfilling my most elementary obligations. But, thinking better of it, it seemed to me that, after all, you would hear of this volume, if only by the reviews I will send you, it would be absurd both my modesty and your puritanism. Some have qualified him as the 'accursed poet' of France. Only one recommendation: since you live with the Emon family, do not let the volume fall into the hands of Miss Emon. As for the priest, who undoubtedly visits you assiduously, you can show it to him. He will think I am damned and will not dare to tell you. The book enrages people. It had been rumored that they would put me on trial, but there will be no such thing. I have received sixteen copies on common paper and four on wove paper. A government that has to deal with the terrible elections in Paris is not going to waste its time putting a madman on trial.
Note from Bayano digital: Charles Baudelaire was a French poet, essayist, art critic and translator. Charles Baudelaire, the 'accursed poet' of France.
Fragment of the letter that Charles Baudelaire sent to his mother on July 9, 1857, in which he accounts for the first repercussions of the appearance of The Flowers of Evil. In 1857, after the publication of The Flowers of Evil, he was accused of attacking public morality.
