“However Dorothée, strong and proud as the sun, advances in the deserted street, alone alive at this hour under the immense azure, and making on the light a dazzling and black spot…” who better than Baudelaire * can say
, in a few words, to make feel, feel, this imprecise and fuzzy notion that is the romantic?
Not romanticism, a word sprinkled with blandness, even insipidity, but the more demanding, more radical, romanticism.
A word that does not like heroes, sure of their facts, so much as dreamers yielding nothing to the utopia of an elsewhere greater than themselves.
Love?
Certainly.
The ideal?
Of course.
The dream?
Sometimes.
A masculine word, which combines with the feminine and carries with it centuries of literature - from
Dangerous Liaisons
by Laclos to
La Reine Margot
by Dumas, from
Madame Bovary
by Flaubert to
L'Amant
by Marguerite Duras - or unforgettable feature films: the crinolines wet with tears of an Adèle H, a mother and her daughter bound around a piano washed up on a beach...
This article is for subscribers only.
You have 52% left to discover.
Want to read more?
Unlock all items immediately.
Without engagement.
TEST FOR €0.99
Already subscribed?
Login
/cloudfront-eu-central-1.images.arcpublishing.com/prisa/3VLEJSDWHVBTXIQ3PJMH7AC22Y.jpg)
