EXPLORING THE HOT, HONEST CONTINENT IN BAUDELAIRE’S “LA CHEVELURE

By Anne Babson

I was a lonely, angry punk-rock teen. I felt misunderstood, perhaps more so than the other tenth grade girls did. I got in trouble frequently for my bomber jacket, my torn-up prom dresses, and my snark. I intimidated many of my high school peers, I think, and I often sat in a corner with a beat-up copy of Les Fleurs du Mal by Charles Baudelaire and a dog-eared French-English dictionary in the part of campus where kids smoked clove cigarettes and complained. I found I had a knack for languages, and I…