This really shouldn’t be the case, but in the last few years, I’ve had a remarkably difficult time reading—-though what I mean is understanding—-Charles Baudelaire’s poetry. It's embarrassing to admit, because I’ve read his poetry and prose in English and in French for over 20 years (and translated it). The most valuable piece of art I own (it was a gift) is a Manet print of Baudelaire's profile. I can’t account for this sudden incomprehension. But maybe it's one of those cases where you get tripped up on your own assumption about how much you're supposed to vibe with someone. I've been told, and have told myself, that Baudelaire is my spirit animal for most of my life, and perhaps the truth is that he never was. Maybe spirit animals aren't assigned to you anyway, but rather you to them.
Then something changed the other day. My friend told me about a 2007 translation of Baudelaire’s 1857 collection, Fleurs du mal (Flowers of Evil) by the poet David Cameron. His excruciatingly literal translation of the title—Flowers of Bad—made me fall to the floor with laughter. Maybe this isn’t funny to someone who isn't a Baudelaire aficionado, or who doesn't speak French; if that’s the case, I'll spare you the explanation. But more than either of those things, I think my reaction was because somehow, despite its absurdity, Cameron’s interpretation, or rather the sentiment behind it, felt familiar. I had forgotten that before I spoke French, “flowers of bad” is how I translated that title, too.
I think what I'm trying to say is that Cameron's “false translation” (his own words) made me realize something about Baudelaire’s poems which is that maybe sometimes you have to just let go of trying to understand something in order to actually understand it.
-Eugenie Dalland