by Roger Fanning
Baudelaire， dead broke， nonetheless allowed himself two hours for his morning ablutions.(Warm water can be a narcotic too.)
His razor scraping whiskers cleanly off sounded like a file rassrasping against prison bars. Never did this man gulp a cup of coffee， bolt out the door with a blob of shaving cream on one ear， and go to a job. He composed himself. Dead broke， he explored (in prose) six waterdrops that quake in a corner of Delacroix’s painting Dante and Virgil! Meanwhile， through his window intruded softly the spiel of a fishmonger as well as the stench. Many， many vendors still singsong their wares， as a sort of wishwash drizzle inducing human animals to mope， to yawn. We all get bored： between mainstream culture (buy things)and nature (in this case， rain)， people tend to snooze. Poetry jolts awake the lucky few. I praise the mirror-gazing mighty poet Baudelaire，my hero， a fop full of compulsions，a perfectionist to whom a single tweezered nosehair brought tears of joy.