Baudelaire, Softbois and the Spleen
by Olivia Walsh
The Softboi: a timeless wonder
2020: the year of uncertainty. The pandemic has wreaked havoc on our livelihoods, leaving thousands of millennials and Gen Zs unemployed… Yet amid these strange and unprecedented times, there is one constant that remains: the indie softboi, lurking in our inboxes.
Easily identifiable by his preoccupation with Tarantino and the Smiths, the typical softboi is a young creative type who thrives on quoting poets and philosophers. He romanticises mental instability; feeding on depression and angst for conversation starters and using descriptions of his internal torture to manipulate women into sleeping with him.
Examples of softboi discourse collated by @beam_me_up_softboi include: “I wanna stick my tongue so far up your ass that I taste the shit you’ve been going through”; “God you’re a little sad / but it’s hot”, and of course “we’re all gonna die one day / everything means nothing /so let me nut inside you”.
Perhaps most importantly, the softboi is characterised by his firm belief that he is different, quirky - an individual - all the while conforming to a familiar archetype. Exposed by screenshots and popular instagram accounts, it’s now easier than ever to spot him. And yet, contrary to popular belief, the softboi is not new; in fact, he has existed for centuries.
While studying 19th century French verse as an undergraduate, I came across Baudelaire, Mallarme, Verlaine and Rimbaud, who (like most middle class white creators) are considered pioneers of their craft. But far from feeling blown over by the insights of these artistes, I was overcome by the desire to shake my head; fooled by the the guise of academia, I was essentially studying softbois throughout time.
“I’m like the king of a rainy country / rich but helpless, decrepit though still a young man / who scorns his fawning tutors, wastes his time on dogs and other animals, and has no fun…”
Spleen III, Baudelaire
My aim, therefore, is to draw parallels between literary sensation Baudelaire and the skater guy whose messages you’ve currently left on read, in the hope that softbois everywhere can be recognised for what they are.
It’s hard out there in the world of dating; the last thing we need is to be mansplained Nietzsche during sex.
Baudelaire: an introduction
Charles Baudelaire lived in a tumultuous time in French history. When Napoleon’s empire overthrew the Second Republic in 1851, and undertook the mass modernisation of Paris, Baudelaire mourned for the “old Paris”. This and his revulsion with politics led him to create a drug-fuelled, poetic fantasy world that rejected reality… (sound familiar?)
Considered provocative and scandalous, his collection Les Fleurs du Mal was condemned for immorality. Like all tormented intellectuals, being shunned by society enhanced his disillusionment and confirmed his suspicions that nobody got him.
In typically embittered softboi fashion, when his mother remarried a man he didn’t like, Baudelaire went to great lengths to upset his family by squandering his inheritance and living a bohemian lifestyle. The modern day softboi equivalent? “I’m a Scorpio / I’m alpha as fuck & have tendency of ruining my life, and danger… addicting.”
Not like other guys
In 1935, readers of Dimanche de la Femme, a supplement in French women’s magazine Mode du Jour, were warned that women should steer clear of men who don’t understand “the female heart.” Who did they single out as one who typifies such a man? Charles Baudelaire.
Baudelaire himself said “this book was not written for my women, my daughters or my sisters”. Like every mansplainer, he believes his opinions too complex for those of the humble lady. But that doesn’t stop him from objectifying her:
“Your feet are as slender as your hands and your hips / Are broad; they’d make the fairest white woman jealous; / To the pensive artist your body’s sweet and dear; / Your wide, velvety eyes are darker than your skin.”
À une Malabaraise, Baudelaire
(Talk about needing to decolonise your desire). Meanwhile, Baudelaire’s preoccupation with a woman’s erotic beauty becomes frustration at her apparent treachery:
“I could have (my pride as high as mountains…) Simply turned away my sovereign head / If I had not seen in that obscene troop / A crime which did not make the sun reel in its course! / The queen of my heart with the peerless gaze / Laughing with them at my sombre distress”
La Béatrice, Baudelaire
Baudelaire’s anger at being mocked by a woman is easily compared to the indie softboi, who after receiving no response to the message “thanks for being so beautiful”, follows up with “you don’t slay / you ain’t cute / get your head out of your arse”. Neither Baudelaire nor the softboi can deal with a bruised ego.
Both Baudelaire and the softboi believe themselves to be sensitive, and different to other guys, whilst simultaneously holding women to misogynistic and unrealistic standards. That columnist from Dimanche de la Femme was clearly on to something; though the softboi can be a convincing seductor, we must avoid him at all costs if we are to preserve our dignity and sanity.
The Spleen
Perhaps the most softboi-esque trait of all of Baudelaire’s writing is the concept of the spleen. In ancient Greek medicine, it was believed that the spleen was responsible for making “black bile”; one of the four humours of the body. If a person suffers from a spleen that produces too much black bile, they’re sure to get depressed.
For Baudelaire, the spleen comes to take on a symbolic significance, referring not to the organ itself but to “fear, agony, melancholy, moral degradation, destruction of the spirit – everything that is wrong with the world.” Indeed, Baudelaire influenced a generation of deep thinkers, and popularised the term splénétique, which refers to a state of pensive sadness or melancholy.
In the poem Spleen itself, the speaker has “done everything to the point where he feels like he cannot be happy any more”. The tone is depressed and hopeless, and offers a cynical perspective on the human condition. There is thus an inescapable comparison to be drawn to the late-night musings of our present day softbois:
In the Fleurs du Mal, the spleen comes to represent an indulgently depressive unreality that is characterised by universal disgust. Though there are glimpses of the “ideal,” they serve only to remind the reader of the torture suffered in life, heightening Baudelaire’s philosophy that “no achievement of beauty [can] be unaccompanied by bitterness and disappointment.”
Thus, the spleen, like an astrological moon, is the ruler of softbois; “spleen refers to intense, ineffable ennui, longing, and suffering; it is the Fall, the defeat, the estrangement from God. When the spleen is victorious, time drags and consciousness is dulled.”
It is the spleen which lends us victim to the agonised ruminations of our e-boys and skaters, and the spleen which propells them to tell you that they’ve never met a girl who actually listens to the Strokes.
Spleenbois: universal sufferers
Though limited social interactions and a second national lockdown are sending us once more into the realms of yearning, let us stop allowing men to characterise their bad behaviour as arty or individual. Even the term softboi is misleading, literally cushioning the toxicity of unpleasant actions.
The softboi warns us: “it is a guarantee that I will analyse every situation and conversation and correct you when you are wrong factually, morally, and otherwise”. Should we not, as self-respecting individuals, be doing the same?
I suggest we call them out for what they are: spleenbois, who, whether poetic legends or just dudes looking for someone to text, are insistent on the pursuit of putting us down.
Of course, there is a part of our better nature inclined to sympathise with artistes. Like Baudelaire’s albatross, all softbois carry “the burden of having a sensitivity and insight” while being perceived “as outsiders and misfits, incurring the hostility of the masses for [their] unique, sometimes grotesque or concupiscent, vision.”
Maybe, like Baudelaire, the softboi’s insufferable philosophies are simply the misunderstood force of the spleen, in which we women play a regrettable part. As one softboi says, “I’m a flaneur. A connoisseur of the sublime. A male model. A poet. A tastemaker. A small-scale influencer… but that’s all meaningless – I really am a lonely boy.”
It can be tempting to fall for them, convincing ourselves that they truly are interested in us, and that we can be compared to the Titian work of art they want to recreate in the nude with their 35mm camera.
If, however, your booty call’s answer to being asked to wear a condom, is “I just don’t think that a spiritual connection between two souls should be inhibited by mass produced plastics,” then a word of advice from one woman to another: run. It’s not worth it for a mediocre spoon, and anyway, Tarantino is shit.
Baudelaire and the boy who is sliding into your DMs, though separated by the centuries, are kindred spirits. Contrary to what they believe, they’re both just like every other guy. You’re better off alone.
The painting in the title image for this piece is Lovers in a Landscape, by Pieter Jan van Reysschoot.
Check Olivia’s poetry account on Instagram: @beam_me_up_baudelaire.
