which
walks, which thinks, which speaks, which looks, which laughs, in which
nourishment ferments and rots, which, nevertheless, is rose-colored,
pretty, tempting, deceitful as the soul itself.

* * * * *

Why flowers alone, which smell so sweet, those large flowers, glittering
or pale, whose tones and shades make my heart tremble and trouble my
eyes. They are so beautiful, their structure is so finished, so varied
and sensual, semi-opened like human organs, more tempting than mouths,
and streaked with turned up lips, teeth, flesh, seed of life powders,
which, in each, gives forth a distinct perfume.

They reproduce themselves, they alone, in the world, without polluting
their inviolable race, shedding around them the divine influence of their
love, the odoriferous incense of their caresses, the essence of their
incomparable body, of their body adorned with every grace, with every
elegances of every shape and form; who have likewise the coquetry of
every hue of color, and the inebriating seduction of every variety of
perfume.

* * * * *

FRAGMENTS WHICH WERE SELECTED SIX MONTHS LATER.

I love flowers, not as flowers, but as material and delicious beings;
I pass my days and my nights in beds of flowers, where they have been
concealed from the public view like the women of a harem.

Who knows, except myself, the sweetness, the infatuation, the quivering,
carnal, ideal, superhuman ecstacy of these tendernesses; and those kisses
upon the bare flesh of a rose, upon the blushing flesh, upon the white
skin, so miraculously different, delicate, rare, subtle, unctuous, of
these adorable flowers!

I have flower-beds that no one has seen except myself, and which I tend
myself.

I enter there as one would glide into a place of secret pleasure. In the
lofty glass gallery, I pass first through a collection of enclosed
carollas, half open or in full bloom, which incline towards the ground,
or towards the roof. This is the first kiss they have given me.

The flowers just mentioned, these flowers which adorn the vestibule of my
mysterious passions, are my servants and not my favorites.

They salute me by the change of their color and by their first
inhalations. They are darlings, coquettes, arranged in eight rows to the
right, eight rows, the left, and so laid out that they look like two
gardens springing up from under my feet.

My heart palpitates, my eyes f