How convenient it is to declare that everything is totally ugly within the habit of the époque, rather than applying oneself to extract from it the dark and cryptic beauty, however faint and invisible it is.
This wasn't as great as I would have hoped. The quality of translation likely wasn't the issue. There were certain peaks. Baudelaire on Poe is transcendent criticism, an epic homage. The poet on Gautier was actually a monument to Balzac by other means. His treatise on Delacroix was wonderful, though the reader might quake imagining such in a longer form.
This great symphony of today, which is the eternally renewed variation of the symphony of yesterday, this succession of melodies, where the variety comes always from the infinite, this complex hymn is called color.
I had hoped to finish this last night, but alas I failed to anticipate a nascent civil war. Alas I awoke at four and fitfully read to the conclusion. The highlight of such was the citation from Stendhal: "The beautiful is but the promise of happiness."
This collection deserves further praise and scrutiny. Perhaps, if we can step away from the Beltway intifada?