I don’t read as much as I used to, but over this holiday season I have been taking pleasure in the translation of Walter Benjamin’s work on Baudelaire, The Writer of Modern Life, and acquainting myself with Les Fleurs du Mal (I know, embarrassing that I haven’t done so before this, right?). I’m glad to have a bilingual edition of the latter–while Robert Howard’s English translation is poetically appealing, it elides Baudelaire’s singular and discomfiting French.
The night before I finished off yesterday’s post, I had a dream. The fog was thick and heavy, my partner and I were stopping by the gas station before swinging back by the mall to pick up my mother. I recognize a woman in the gas station (she is a librarian in life, but in the dream she was making a little extra as a janitor). While we are talking, she points to a rack of barely sketched in stuffed Halloween animals and says, “I do not like the way they treat the stuffed animals.”