Читать книгу Paris Spleen - Charles Baudelaire - Страница 8

Whom do you love best? do tell, you enigma: your father? your mother, sister, brother?

— I have no father, no mother, neither sister nor brother.

— Your friends?

— That is a word I’ve never understood.

— Your country?

— I don’t know at what latitude to look for it.

— Beauty?

— Immortal goddess, I would gladly love her.

— Gold?

— I hate it as much as you hate God.

— Well then, you puzzling stranger, what do you love?

— I love clouds . . . clouds that go by . . . out there . . . over there . . . marvelous clouds!