Translation of the week: Jules Lemaître on poetry
It is only too true that no-one reads poetry these days. Victor Hugo I except; his verses, though they have become sacred, still do get a bit of attention. Everyone has heard the Revenant or the Pauvres gens at some matinée, recited by a fat lady or a gentleman dressed in black; there are students who have perused the Châtiments and even leafed through the Légende des siècles. Musset, for his part, is no longer the “poet of the youth” of today.
And who, among those we call the public of today, loves and understands that marvel, the Émaux et Camées? […]
Poets, minor or major, are not really read except by other poets. Perhaps because poetry has become in our day an art more and more refined and special and that, whether through impotence or disdain, it no longer has much oratorical or lyrical stamina. Around 1830, when poets were expressing broadly and full-throatedly widely-shared feelings and passions understandable to everyone, they did not lack for readers. It is likely, then, that poetry owes its failing fortunes to the increasing predominance of artistic curiosity over inspiration.