Selected Poems from

MALDOROR
by Lautréamont (1868)

Translated by Sonja Elen Kisa (1998)

Illustrated by François Aubéron

FIRST CANTO
Stanza 1: The Reader Forewarned
God grant that the reader, emboldened and having become at present as
fierce as what he is reading, find, without loss of bearings, his way, his
wild and treacherous passage through the desolate swamps of these som-
bre, poison-soaked pages; for, unless he should bring to his reading a rig-
orous logic and a sustained mental effort at least as strong as his distrust,
the lethal fumes of this book shall dissolve his soul as water does sugar. It
is not right that everyone read the pages that follow: a sole few will savour
this bitter fruit without danger. As a result, wavering soul, before penetrat-
ing further into such uncharted barrens, draw back, step no deeper. Mark
my words: draw back, step no deeper, like the eyes of a son respectfully
flinching away from his mother's august contemplation, or rather, like an
acute angle formation of cold-sensitive cranes stretching beyond the eye
can reach, soaring through the winter silence in deep meditation, under
tight sail towards a focal point on the horizon, from where there suddenly
rises a peculiar gust of wind, omen of a storm. The oldest crane, alone at
the forefront, on seeing this, shakes his head like a rational person and
consequently his beak too, which he clicks, as he is uneasy (and so would I
be, in his shoes); whilst his old, feather-stripped neck, contemporary of

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three generations of cranes, sways in irritated undulations that foreshadow the oncoming thunderstorm. After
looking with composure several times in every direction with eyes that bespeak experience, the first crane (for he
is the privileged one to show his tail feathers to the other, intellectually inferior cranes) vigilantly cries out like a
melancholy sentinel driving back the common enemy, and then carefully steers the nose of the geometric figure
(it would be a triangle, but the third side, formed in space by these curious avian wayfarers, is invisible), be it to
port, or to starboard, like a skilful captain; and, manoeuvring with wings that seem no larger than those of a spar-
row, he thus adopts, since he is no dumb creature, a different and safer philosophical course.

Stanza 6: The Nails (The Reader as an Accomplice)

One should let one's nails grow for a fortnight. Oh! How sweet it is to brutally snatch from his bed a child with
no hair yet on his upper lip, and, with eyes wide open, to pretend to suavely stroke his forehead, brushing back
his beautiful locks! Then, suddenly, at the moment when he least ex-
pects it, to sink one's long nails into his tender breast, being careful,
though, not to kill him; for if he died, there would be no later viewing
of his misery. Then, one drinks the blood, licking the wounds; and, dur-
ing the entire procedure, which ought to last no shorter than an aeon,
the boy cries. Nothing could be better than his blood, warm and just
freshly squeezed out as I have described, if it weren't for his tears, bit-
ter as salt. Mortal one, haven't you ever tasted your blood, when by
chance you cut your finger? Tasty, isn't it? For it has no taste. Besides,
can you not recall one day, absorbed in your dismal thoughts, having
lifted your deeply cupped palm to your sickly face, drenched by the
downpour from your eyes; the said hand then making its fatal way to
your mouth, which, from this vessel chattering like the teeth of the
schoolboy who glances sidelong at the one born to oppress him, sucked
the tears in long draughts? Tasty, aren't they? For they taste of vinegar.
A taste reminiscent of the tears of your true love, except a child's tears
are so much more pleasing to the palate. He is incapable of deceit, for
he does not yet know evil: but the most loving of women is bound to
betray sooner or later... This I deduce by analogy, despite my ignorance
of what friendship means, what love means (I doubt I will ever accept
either of these, at least not from the human race). So, since your blood
and tears do not disgust you, go ahead, feed confidently on the adoles-
cent's tears and blood. Blindfold him, while you tear open his quivering
flesh; and, after listening to his resplendent squeals for a good few
hours, similar to those hoarse shrieks of death one hears from the
throats of the mortally wounded on battlefields, you then, running out
faster than an avalanche, fly back in from the room next door, pretend-
ing to rush to his rescue. You untie his hands, with their swollen nerves and veins, you restore sight to his dis-
traught eyes, as you resume licking his tears and blood. Oh, what a genuine and noble change of heart! That di-
vine spark within us, which so rarely appears, is revealed; too late! How the heart longs to console the innocent
one we have harmed. "O child, who has just undergone such cruel torture, who could have ever committed such
an unspeakable crime upon you! You poor soul! The agony you must be going through! And if your mother
were to know of this, she would be no closer to death, so feared by evildoers, than I am now. Alas! What, then,
are good and evil? Might they be one and the same thing, by which in our furious rage we attest our impotence
and our passionate thirst to attain the infinite by even the maddest means? Or might they be two separate things?
Yes... they'd better be one and the same... for, if not, what shall become of me on the Day of Judgment? Forgive
me, child. Here before your noble and sacred eyes stands the man who crushed your bones and tore off the strips
of flesh dangling from various parts of your body. Was it a frenzied inspiration of my delirious mind, was it a

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deep inner instinct independent of my reason, such as that of the eagle tearing at its prey, that drove me to com-
mit this crime? And yet, as much as my victim, I suffered! Forgive me, child. Once we are freed from this tran-
sient life, I want us to be entwined for evermore, becoming but one being, my mouth fused to your mouth. But
even so, my punishment will not be complete. So you will tear at me, without ever stopping, with your teeth and
nails at the same time. I will adorn and embalm my body with perfumes and garlands for this expiatory holo-
caust; and together we shall suffer, I from being torn, you from tearing me... my mouth fused to yours. O blond-
haired child, with your eyes so gentle, will you now do what I advise you? Despite yourself, I wish you to do it,
and you will set my conscience at rest." And in saying this, you will have wronged a human being and be loved
by that same being: therein lies the greatest conceivable happiness. Later, you could take him to the hospital, for
the crippled boy will be in no condition to earn a living. They will proclaim you a hero, and centuries from now,
laurel crowns and gold medals will cover your bare feet on your ancient iconic tomb. O you, whose name I will
not inscribe upon this page consecrated to the sanctity of crime, I know your forgiveness was as boundless as the
universe. But look, I'm still here!

SECOND CANTO
Stanza 13: The Shipwreck and Sharks (Maldoror's First Love)
I was seeking a soul resembling mine, and I could not find it. I searched throughout the seven seas; my persever-
ance proved of no use. Yet I could not remain alone. I needed someone who'd approve of my nature; there had to
be somebody out there with the same ideas as me. It was morning;
the sun rose over the horizon, in all its splendour, and here rises be-
fore my eyes a young man as well, whose presence made flowers
sprout in his wake. He approached me, and holding out his hand: "I
have come to you who seek me. God bless this happy day." But I
replied: "Begone! I never summoned you. I don't need your compan-
ionship..." It was evening; night was already drawing the darkness of
her veil over nature. A beautiful woman, whose form I could barely
make out, was also drawing the influence of her enchantment over
me. She looked upon me with compassion, however she dared not
speak to me. So I said: "Come closer, so I may see your face clearly,
for at this distance the starlight is too faint for me to make out its fea-
tures." Then, modestly, with her eyes lowered, she glided across the
lawn's grass, coming to my side. As soon as I saw her: "I see that
goodness and justice have found a home in your heart: we could
never live together. You are now admiring my beauty, which has
overwhelmed many a woman, but sooner or later, you'll regret ever
having given your love to me, for you do not know my soul. Not that
I would ever be unfaithful to you: to she who bares her heart to me
with such abandon and trust, I bare mine back with equal trust and
abandon, but get it into your head lest you ever forget it: Wolves and
lambs look not on one another with bedroom eyes." So what was I
waiting for, I who rejected in such disgust what was most beautiful in
humanity! What I was waiting for, I really couldn't tell you. I haven't
yet gotten into the habit of keeping a daily record of the phenomena that occur within my psyche, according to
the practice recommended by philosophy. I sat on a cliff, by the sea. A ship had just set full sail to escape these
waters: a minute speck had just appeared at the horizon, making gradual headway, driven on by gusts, and grow-
ing more powerful by the minute. The storm was about to swoop down on us, and already the sky was growing
dark, overcast in a black almost as hideous as the human heart. The vessel, which was a great warship, had just
cast all her anchors, in fear of being swept against the rocky coast. The wind roared with rage from all four

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points of the compass, tearing the sails to shreds. Crashes of thunder burst out amid flashes of lightning and
could not drown out the sound of wailing to be heard from this house with no foundations, this teetering sepul-
cher. The rolling of these aqueous masses had not yet managed to shatter the anchor's chains, however their buf-
feting had opened up a way into the ship's ribs: a gaping breach, for the pumps could no longer bail out the
masses of salt water beating down on the bridge like mountains of foam. The ship in distress fires her canons to
sound the alarm; but she sinks, slowly... majestically. He who has never watched a ship sinking in the midst of a
storm, with intermittent flashes of lightning between the deepest periods of darkness, while those on board are
overwhelmed with that despair you know so well, knows nothing of life's ups and downs. Finally, a universal
shriek of utter distress bursts from within the bowels of the ship, whilst the sea intensifies her fearsome on-
slaughts. It is that cry one hears when the limits of human capacity give in: we wrap ourselves up in the cloak of
despair and leave our fate in the hands of God. We flock together like cornered sheep. The ship in distress fires
her canons to sound the alarm; but she sinks, slowly... majestically. They've had the pumps running all day now.
Futile efforts. Night has come, pitch-black and merciless, bringing the delightful show to its climax. Each soul
onboard realizes that, once in the water, he won't be able to breathe, for, as far back as he can remember, he
knows of no fish in his family tree; nevertheless he struggles to hold his breath for as long as possible, if only to
prolong his life for another two or three seconds: that is the vengeful irony he aims at death... The ship in distress
fires her canons to sound the alarm; but she sinks, slowly... majestically. He doesn't know that the ship, as it goes
under, sets the ocean swells twisting and turning in a powerful circular motion, stirring up the benthonic mires
into the turbid waters, and that a force from below, in counterattack to the tempest wreaking havoc above, drives
the element to violent, jolting motions. Thus, despite the stores of courage he mustered in advance, the drowned-
to-be, on second thought, ought to be delighted if he can prolong his life, swirling in the vortices of the abyss,
even by the space of half a normal breath, for good measure. He will fail in his supreme desire to cheat death.
The ship in distress fires her canons to sound the alarm; but she sinks, slowly... majestically. No wait, there's
been a mistake. She's no longer firing, she's no longer sinking. The cockleshell is now completely engulfed!
Good heavens! How could I continue to live, after experiencing such exquisite pleasures! I had just been granted
the chance to witness the death agonies of many a fellow man. Minute by minute, I followed the episodes of
their anguish. Now, the feature presentation was the bellowing of some old lady, brought to hysterics by fear.
Now, the squeals of a suckling infant were drowning out the nautical orders. The ship was too distant for me to
clearly perceive the groans brought on by blasts of wind, but through sheer willpower I zoomed in on it, and the
optical illusion was complete. Every quarter of an hour, when a particularly stronger gust of wind, sounding its
gloomy tones amid the cries of the terrified storm petrels, would break open the ship in another lengthwise crack,
increasing the laments of those about to be offered as sacrifices to death, I would dig a sharp metal point deeper
into my cheek and secretly think: "They are suffering still more!" At least this gave me grounds for comparison.
From the shore, I shouted at them, hurling violent curses and threats. I felt that they could hear me! I could feel
that my hatred and raving, soaring over the distances, were breaking the physical laws of sound and falling loud
and clear onto their ears, deafened by the wrathful ocean's roars! I felt they ought to be thinking of me, unleash-
ing their vengeance in impotent rage! Every now and then I would cast a glance up at the cities, sounds asleep on
dry land, and seeing that nobody suspected a ship to be sinking a few miles from the shore, with birds of prey for
a crown and empty-bellied creatures of the deep for a pedestal, I took courage, and regained hope: I could now
be sure of their demise! There was no escape! Through an excess of precaution, I had gone fetch my double-
barrelled shotgun, so that, should some survivor be tempted to swim up to the rocks to escape impending death, a
bullet in the shoulder would shatter his arm, thus thwarting his plan. Just when the tempest was at its fiercest, I
saw, at the surface, desperately struggling to keep afloat, a frenetic head, with hair standing on end. He was
swallowing gallons of water and was tossed back into the briny deep, bobbing like a piece of cork. But in no
time he surfaced again, mane dripping wet, and, eyes focused on the shore, he seemed to defy death. What admi-
rable composure! On his brave and noble face, he bore a deep and gory wound, gashed open by the jagged point
of some hidden reef. He must have been sixteen at the oldest, for you could just barely see, by the lightning
flashes that lit up the night, the peach fuzz on his lip. And now he was no more than two hundred yards from the
cliff, and I was getting a clear view of him. What courage! What indomitable spirit! How his steady head seemed
to flout at fate, as he vigorously cleaved through the waves, prying open the grooves before him with effort!... I
had made up my mind beforehand. I owed it to myself to keep my promise: the final hour had tolled for all; there

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could be no exceptions. That was my resolution, and nothing could change it... A sharp blast echoed, and the
head sank right under, never to be seen again. From this murder I did not take as much pleasure as you might
imagine, and precisely because I had already done more than my share of killing in life, I was doing it now only
from sheer habit, so hard to break, and providing only mild enjoyment. Conscience becomes dulled, calloused.
What pleasure could I feel at the death of this human being, when more than a hundred were about to present me
with the spectacle of their final struggles against the waves, once the ship had been submerged? With this death,
not even the thrill of danger aroused me, for human justice, cradled by the night's ghastly storm, was slumbering
in the cottages a few steps from me. Now that the years hang heavy on my shoulders, I can speak this supreme
and solemn truth with sincerity: I was never as cruel as it was later said among men, however sometimes their
persistent spitefulness went on devastating for years on end. There was then no limits to my fury; I was pos-
sessed by fits of cruelty: my wild eyes would strike terror in anyone who dared come close enough to see them,
provided they be of my race. If it was a horse or a dog, I would let it go by: did you head what I just said? Unfor-
tunately, on the night of the storm, I was seized by one of my fits of wrath, my reason having abandoned me (for
normally I would be just as cruel, only more discreet), and everything falling into my hands on that night had to
perish. I am not saying this justifies my misdeeds. My fellow men are not the only ones to blame. I am merely
making a statement of fact, as I await the last judgment, which makes me feel my throat constrict in anticipa-
tion... What do I care about the last judgment? My reason never abandons me, as I had claimed just to mislead
you. And when I commit a murder, I know full well what I am doing: what else would I be wanting to do?
Standing on the cliff, as the tempest flailed at my hair and trench coat, I ecstatically watched the full might of the
thunderstorm relentlessly hammering at the ship under a starless sky. In a triumphant pose, I followed all the
twists and turns of this drama, from the instant the vessel threw her anchors, until the moment she was swal-
lowed up within that final shroud, that cloak which
dragged everybody wrapped in it down into the bowels
of the sea. But the cue for me to make my entrance in
these scenes of nature in tumult was approaching.
When the place where the ship had been struggling
clearly showed that she had gone spend the rest of her
days on the oceanic floor, then, some of those who had
been carried off by the waves reappeared on the sur-
face. They seized and grappled each other around the
waist, in twos, in threes; this was the way not to save
their lives, for their movements became hampered, and
they went down like dumbbells... What is this horde of
sea monsters ploughing through the waves at top
speed? There are six of them, with sturdy fins that cut a
passage through the heaving seas. Exercising the privi-
leges of their higher rank on the food chain, the sharks
soon make a great eggless omelette of all these wig-
gling human arms and legs on this far from dry conti-
nent. Blood mingles with the waters, and the waters
mingle with blood. Their fierce eyes light up the blood-
bath... But what is that other tumult of the waves, yon-
der, on the horizon? It looks like a waterspout coming
this way! What strokes! Now I see what it is. An enor-
mous female shark has come to partake of duck liver
pâté and to eat cold stew meat. She is furious, for she
arrives ravenous. A battle ensues between her and the
sharks, to fight over the few palpitating limbs still
dumbly floating here and there on the surface of the
crimson cream. Left and right she snaps her jaws, de-
livering many a fatal wound. But three surviving sharks

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surround her, and she is forced to twist and turn in all directions to outmanoeuvre them. With an increasing emo-
tion unbeknownst until now, the one-man audience follows this new kind of naval battle from his seat at the
shore. His gaze is fastened on this courageous female shark, with jaws so mighty. He grits his teeth, raises his
rifle, and, skilful as ever, he lodges his second bullet in the gill slit of one of the sharks, just as it rears its head
above a wave. Two sharks remain, both showing even greater ferocity. From the top of the rock, the man with
the briny saliva flings himself into the sea and swims towards the pleasantly coloured carpet, gripping his trusty
steel knife. From now on the sharks each have one enemy to deal with. He closes in on his weary adversary, and,
taking his time, buries his sharp blade in its belly. Meanwhile, the nimble-finned citadel easily disposes of the
last opponent... Now the swimmer and the female shark saved by him confront each other. For minutes they stare
fixedly into each other's eyes. They swim circling, keeping each other in sight, and each thinking: "I was wrong
all along. Here is one more evil than I." Then in unison they glided underwater towards each other, in mutual
admiration, the female shark slitting open the waves with her fins, Maldoror's arms thrashing the water; and they
held their breaths, in deepest reverence, each one anxious to gaze for the first time upon his living image. Effort-
lessly, at only three yards apart, they suddenly fell upon one another like two magnets, in an embrace of dignity
and gratitude, clasping each other tenderly as brother and sister. Carnal desire soon followed this display of af-
fection. Like two leeches, a pair of nervous thighs gripped tightly against the monster's viscous flesh, and arms
and fins wrapped around the objects of their desire, surrounding their bodies with love, while their breasts and
bellies soon fused into one bluish-green mass reeking of sea-wrack, in the midst of the tempest still raging by the
light of lightning; with the foamy waves for a wedding bed, borne on an undersea current as if in a cradle, rolling
and rolling down into the bottomless ocean depths, they came together in a long, chaste, and hideous mating!...
At last I had found somebody who was like me!... From now on I was no longer alone in life!... Her ideas were
the same as mine!... I was face to face with my first love!

Last Updated: January 2001

Please send comments to the translator at Sonja Elen Kisa.

For those interested in a complete edition of this book, I would most rec-
ommend Lykiard's translation of Maldoror & the Complete Works of
Lautréamont, in association with Amazon.

Go to the Esperanto translation of these poems

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