A dear friend gave me a tiny little book when I was in my teens. I don't know whether it is rare, or valuable. Even so, it became my most prized possession. It was beat up, and well loved, each page turned by loving fingers. I poured through Flowers of Evil. For almost 2 years, I ate, drank, slept, dreamt Fleurs du Mal.

I have never found another book like it. I love the translations in my little book better than any I have seen. Perhaps because I have the verses etched into my brain.

I feel the need to share this little treasure of mine. To sing Baudelaire's praises.

What follows is a faithful following of the content of the tiny book I have. I will strive to remain absolutely accurate, as much as I am able.

I would like to dedicate this page to Alexandre, without whom I never would have learned such madness, such exquisite obsessive agony. Thank you for corrupting me, my dearest friend.