The spleen, on the other hand, exposes the passing moment in all its nakedness. To his horror, the melancholy man sees the earth revert to a mere state of nature. No breath of prehistory surrounds it: there is no aura. This is how the earth emerges in the verses of “Le Goût du néant” which follow the ones we have quoted. Je contemple d’en haut le globe en sa rondeur, Et je n’y cherche plus l’abri d’une cahute.
