There are moments in life when man with
his louse-ridden hair casts wild staring looks at the
green membranes of space; for he believes he hears,
somwhere ahead, the ironic hoots of a phantom. He
staggers and bows his head; what he has heard is the
voice of conscience. Then with the speed of a madman he
rushes out of the house, takes the first direction his
wild state suggests and bounds over the rough plains of
the countryside. But the yellow phantom never loses
sight og him, pursuing him with equal speed. Sometimes
on stormy nights, while legions of winged octupi, which
look like ravens at a distance, hover above the clouds,
moving ponderously towards the cities of men, their
missions to warn them to change their conduct, lit up by
flashes of lightning, one after another; and wiping a
furtive tear of compassion which flows from its frozen
eye, it shouts out 'Yes, he certainly deserves it; it is
only justice being done.

Having said that he ressumes his grim
attitude and continues to watch, trembling nervously,
the manhunt, and the big lipos of the shadowy vagina
from which immense dark spermatozoids flow unceasingly
like a river and then soar up into the lugubrious ether,
hiding all nature with the vast soan of their bat's
wings, including the solitary legions of octupi, now
gloomy at the sight of these deumb inexpressible
fulgulations.

But all the time the steeplechase between
these two tireless runners is going on, and the phantom
hurls torrents of fire from his mounth onto the sined
back of the human antelope. If, while he is
accomplishing his duty, he comes upon Pity trying to bar
his way, he gives in disgustedly to her supplications,
and allows man to escape. The phantom makes a clicking
sound with its tongue, as it to tell itself that it is
giving up the chanse, then returns to its kennel for the
time being. His is the voice of the condemned; it can be
heard even in the furthest layers of space; and when its
dreadful shrieking penetrates the human heart, then man
would prefer, as the saying goes, to have Death as his
mother, then man would pran Remorse as his son.

He buries his head deep in the earthy windings of a hole; but conscience
volatilizes this ostrich-trick. The hole disappears, a
drop of eather; light appears with its train of beans,
like a flight of curfews swiiping down on lavender; and
man, his eyes open, is face to face with his pale and
ghastly self again. I have seen him making for the sea,
climbing a jagged promontory, lashed on by the eyebrow
of the surge; and flinging himself down arrow-like into
the waves. The miracle is this: the corpse reappeared
the next day on the surface of the ocean, which had
brought this flotsam of flesh back to the shore. The man
free himself from his body's imprint in the sand, wrung
the water from his drenched hair, and silently,
stoopingly, returned to his way of life.

Maldoror sur scène

I just ran a celebrity face comparison test over at MyHeritage.com. Didn't turn out too bad.
( See cut for results. )