Translated from Lettres d’un poète parisien, by Udolphe de l’Ennui.


In honor of the upcoming fourth anniversary of his Celebrated Magazine on the World-Wide Web, Dr. Boli is reprinting some of the most notable articles, stories, poems, and advertisements of the past four years.

My dear L——,

Spring has come, and I feel the gentle breeze wafting through the open window. Petals flutter like pink fairy wings from the apple tree in the garden. How I hate the spring! It is worse than an abomination: it is a commonplace…

Did you imagine that I should be enchanted by your descriptions of the wines of Sauternes, which you call sweet as honey, with all the fruits of the orchard in the scent? Did you imagine that I cared for such things as honey or fruits? All sweetness is a monstrous lie; all fruit is stunningly audacious in its mendacity. Only in bitterness is there truth, because bitterness is the scent of death, and only in death is the truth of life revealed. I sup on wormwood: away with honey, and fruits, and marmalade, especially marmalade. Do not fail to send more of Mlle de V——’s excellent marmalade, so that I may despise it…

The greengrocer is pushing his cart up the street, singing happily to himself. The imbecile! What is it to me if he dances on the bridge at Avignon? I despise dancing, and I despise bridges. Nor do I care much for Avignon… The birds also are singing, and they are imbeciles as well, but they have the good sense not to dance, even on bridges…

The treacherous sun, with cowardly stealth, has inched its way across the sky again, and now floods my chamber with its rays. How it mocks me! It grows stronger little by little every day, while I must grow weaker for my art: weaker and weaker, wasting away. Already I have scarcely the life in me to get up and shut the blind… I lie on my couch, immobile, and I feel I must die; I know it. But send the marmalade anyway, in case I am wrong.

Yours in misery of soul,


P.S.—Give my love to Mme L—— and all the little L——s.