Front cover of The Painter of Modern Life and Other Stories by Charles Baudelaire (1964), published by Phaidon Press. The title essay first appeared in the Figaro in instalments on 26 and 28 November and 3 December 1863. It had been written between November 1859 and February 1860 and promised, or offered, to several other periodicals in the meantime (from Bibliographical Notes in this edition).
Field Notes
I'd come across flâneurs long ago: detached watchers of society, especially the cities growing fat with societal changes from land-based agricultural work to an industrial modern life caused, in England, by successive legislation - The Enclosure Acts, The Corn Laws and Poor Laws - the mechanisation of farm work and the growing demand for labour in the factories and mills. I hadn't really understood but they called to me and then, at the end of last year, they came back for me.
Monday 20th October 2025
Yesterday I slept the sleep of recovery. Long, hot, exhausted, heavy lids, heavy limbs, the dull ache left from manipulation - so gentle, so demanding in the aftermath.
It rains intermittently, heavy showers shoved by gusts of wind. There was a person on the track on Sunday, on the line between Wye and Minster. At half past two on a chilly Sunday afternoon, someone walked off the platform in front of a train. We knew when the 15:07 was cancelled and then the 15:46 and the 16:07. A major incident was all that was said at first, and then piece by piece, the story came.
It was cold and blustery on that bare transit stop designed to bring prosperity to this forgotten toe of England. Shelters built at regimented intervals, no toilets, no warm muggy café with steamed up windows and bright lights, the whole place black and grey, a modern monolith striding across roads, rivers, fields.
I had been on my way to supper at The Ivy and then to a performance of Medieval music in the Cathedral. Already a test of endurance, sad and shocked ...
Page 2
... at the loss of life, I went home. I didn't sleep that day, made supper, ate well, watched vaguely lovable characters solve crimes and make a nuisance of themselves.
Weighed down, I ticked off the minutiae, sidings cleaned, flu jab received, a visit, six months late, to the osteopath. Unpacking in the morning, folding away the summer clothes, hiding the suitcases beneath the bed.
Such a relief to finally get here after months of waiting to be well enough. Everywhere clean, ordered, inviting, pots and pains waiting to be used, the hand painted cup and saucer waiting for the coffee, the soft bed waiting for my bones.
The flânerie thread continues, the amazing library opening its stores like the libraries of my youth: filled with wonder, sitting for hours at the long reading desks in the closed room of the Reference Library: books to read but not borrow.
I might have the origin story: The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays by Charles Baudelaire. The history of the book is almost as interesting as its contents. Published in 1964 in London SW7 - South Kensington, north ...
Page 3
... of the Fulham Road, up to Kensington Gore and the boundary with Hyde Park. Rubbing shoulders with the Albert Hall, Imperial College, the great museums. It cost 34 shillings and has been continually issued since 2 March 1965.
Inside, the Editor's Note sets out its lineage: "All footnotes ... included between an asterisk and the initial 'C.B.' are Baudelaire's own". It sends a frisson through me.
Opposite the title page a coloured plate has been pasted in after the book was printed. In the front, the label of the County Library, under the auspices of the Kent Education Committee. Now, along with History and Heritage, under the governance of Leisure and Community. Is that right that stripping of Education?
In the back, the old pocket for holding the borrowing card. Watching nimble fingers riffle through the rows of borrowing cards, so dexterous, such speed and agility, made me want to be a librarian.
The light is coming outside, still dark when I started writing, another eight minutes to sunrise for this part of south England. The place warm and cosy, breakfast awaits. Another day starts.
Field Notes
I was delighted to find The Modern Painter, Walter Benjamin's The Arcades Project and The situationists and the city, a collection of the Situationist International's key essays on urbanism and the city, all available to borrow from my local library. Not an academic library behind a pay wall, but available free to anyone with a library card.
References
The Modern Painter and Other Essays (1964), Charles Baudelaire, Phaidon Press, London.
The Arcades Project (2002), Walter Benjamin, Harvard University Press, London.
The situationists and the city (2009), Tom McDonough (ed), Verso, London.
Previous Posts in This Series
On Pens, Diaries, Mrs Dalloway and Oliver Cromwell - Friday 10 October 2025
On Rain before the Code - Friday 3 October 2025
On Transitions - Friday 26 September 2025
On Bringing New Audiences - Saturday 20 September 2025
On Liminal Spaces - Saturday 13 September 2025
That was a heart-touching write. Though tragic, the lesson it leaves is profound that we are "humans" - fragile.
Yes, that is true.
The book is very interesting. I haven't read it yet. In my class, we're reading medieval literature, and it's very interesting. I'm reading some love letters written by two medieval lovers.
Two medieval lovers? That sounds interesting! Who were they?
Hi
Eloísa y Abelardo
Libro de Régine Pernoud
Ah, yes, Héloïse and Abelard! I will refresh my memory! Are you enjoying them? Perhaps enjoy is not the right word?
I loved reading it but I didn't like the ending, there is no happy ending.
No, that's true. I must read again, I haven't for a long time. Thank you for reminding me.
I always liked the sound of the word shillings.. :) and the thought of breakfast DOES really bring a great start to the new day..
Shillings is a great loss to the language!
"I am the wound and the sword, the torturer and the flayed"
I read Baudelaire a thousand times in college, a rather raw and realistic poem. I love it. It's been a long time since I've read anything by him, but I enjoy it whenever I get the chance.
Best regards.
From Les Fleurs du Mal? I must get that from the library. It's a book I know by reputation, rather than reading. Glad you like Baudelaire!
My gosh, what beautiful prose about a tragic choice made by a tormented individual. I loved reading this, even if I was a bit sad. I've had a hectic few days, and have a few hectic ones still to come, but this was a sobering reminder to take every moment for granted.
Thank you as always for sharing in our beautiful handwritten community.
It was very sad, cold Sunday afternoons must be one of the lowest points of the week. Good if we can keep our heads above water, good to have people around who can help with that. Hope you get the chance for some more restful days or maybe not, if you are starting new things.
Writing is rest. Words are therapy. I'm indulging. :)
The thing that really struck me is how one event had impacts on you and others, and how you demonstrated this without literal stories of each and every intervening strand of that web of consequence.
I am learning more and more, as I write more, that the density and intent of meaning is far more important than word count.
I've wanted to do an experiment where I write a story only using sentences of consistent length. I have no idea where to start. :)
Maybe a story about a broken clock. Would make sense, but it would be interesting to see if anyone noticed.
Whenever I submit my writing for critique, I get a lot of flak about sentence length - too short, too uniform, too long, too much, too abrupt, too varied, too little, lol.
I don't know about sentences of consistent length - what would that be for? I love poetry and I use a lot of poetic techniques. I wrote this post about Roger Robinson when he won the poetry prize a few years ago. He says the poet's job is to translate unspeakable things on to the page. And poets are able to do that with sets of irreducible words.
And I'm fascinated by Jack Kerouac trying to write like people think and speak, with their breaths not really full stops or commas, looser than that, and picking up on the musicality and rhythms as if it were jazz.
This handwriting thing is fascinating, too, and, like Jack, it's first draft, best draft. Often I want to edit as I'm transcribing but I resist, because preserving the flaws and stumbles is like preserving a fingerprint. It becomes more archival, especially as I'm developing the field notes. I've had a few ideas for capturing hand written marginalia when I'm reading, which will be fun, too.
I'm looking forward to retiring (officially next week), for now I have to jealously carve out a little piece of time for writing.
I wish you all the absolute very best for the next week!
I was speaking to a sculptor the other day. He leaves his fingerprints in his work, as it is... a fingerprint, and every mark he makes with his hands become part of his signature. It's a great style that shows it was crafted by human hands.
We also spoke of the things that can anger otherwise very passive artists, and that has the makings of a post of its own. Perhaps something I'll hand write, for catharsis.
That would be interesting.
Still processing it in my mind - it will come:)