The Desire to Paint
Unfortunate may be the man, but happy the artist whom desire rends!
I burn to paint she who appeared to me so rarely and who fled so quickly, like a beautiful thing the voyager regrets to see carried off behind him in the night. How long it has been already since she disappeared!
She is beautiful, and more than beautiful: she is surprising. In her, black abounds, and all that she inspires is nocturnal and profound. Her eyes are two lairs in which mystery faintly sparkles, and her gaze illuminates like lightning: it is an explosion in the shadows.
I would compare her to a black star, if one could conceive of a black star pouring forth light and happiness. But she makes one think more readily of the moon, which undoubtedly has marked her with its formidable influence; not the white moon of idylls, like a cold bride, but the sinister and intoxicating moon suspended in the depths of a stormy night, jostled by racing clouds; not the peaceful and discreet moon visiting the sleep of pure men, but the moon torn from the sky, vanquished and in revolt, that the Thessalian Sorcerers harshly forced to dance on the terrified grass!
In her little face lives tenacious will and love of the prey. Meanwhile, at the base of this disquieting visage, upon which mobile nostrils breathe in the unknown and the impossible, bursts forth with inexpressible grace a laugh from a large mouth, red and white, and delicious, which makes one dream of the miracle of a superb flower blooming in volcanic earth.
There are women who inspire the desire to conquer and to enjoy; but she lends the desire to die slowly under her gaze.
From Baudelaire
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