I know the passionate lover of fine style exposes himself to the hatred of the masses; but no respect for humanity, no false modesty, no conspiracy, no universal suffrage will ever force me to speak the unspeakable jargon of this age, or to confuse ink with virtue. --C.B.It is Devil's Night again, this year, and I am curious about everything. I am lying on a couch in a living room in a house that is not mine, and whose owner is long gone. There is a slight scent of spice in the air. Sharp. Cinnamon and pepper. I'm not sure where it is coming from, but between it and the excitement of being left alone in the house of a person I barely know, I can feel my body coming alive.
I've been remembering, lately, my favorite non-scandalous parts of the body to have kissed: My neck, collar bone, and back. Do you know the feeling? A simple description in a book can spark it's memory and ignite you into real-world action.
I've been enjoying the blue lit light that comes through the window of a new lover's room.
Read that last sentence again, slowly. Pay attention to your mouth, teeth, and tongue as you do. These movements, more so than the words themselves, describe, precisely, the pool-room-water-reflection unwrapping of the last few evenings.
--k.
*excerpt from Preface II of a second edition of The Flowers of Evil, unpublished, by Charles Baudelaire
photo credit: Brett Lloyd photos; backstage Louis Vuitton
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