The Windows and the Stars Illumined

The Parisian sky at night, as it must have appeared to Baudelaire

Thanks to a note from Parrish Baker I learned of Amédée Guillemin’s Le Ciel, a guide book for amateur stargazers published in the 1860s. It seems to have been a popular title, running to five editions.

In the preface Guillemin explains that he is writing for all the curious souls who are interested in the heavenly bodies but have neither the time nor the inclination to become professional astronomers (my translation):

I hope that this book is as easy and pleasant to read as a novel, or at least as interesting as the accounts of travellers who have returned to tell of unknown lands. Is this not also a voyage, but one of the mind? A journey which follows science through celestial regions, moving from one stage to another, or rather from sun to sun, to the utmost limits of the visible universe? It is true that the reader will not find any sudden twists and turns, or be surprised by the emotions that make our hearts beat faster when we think about how our fellow creatures endured hardships — but they will be given an opportunity to contemplate the most sublime of all dramas: the majesty of great wonders, the unalterable, the eternal harmony of the laws of nature.

A poster for bookshops: “Le Ciel is sold here”

Leafing through the fourth edition on Gallica (Paris: Hachette, 1870), I was struck by the illustrations that map the sky over Paris at different points of the year. I grew up in a small town and, although I love Montreal, I do miss seeing the stars at night.

What a joy it must have been in the days before light pollution, to be able to raise your eyes and say with Baudelaire:¹

     I want to watch the blue mist of the night come on,
     The windows and the stars illumined, one by one,
     The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily,
     And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see
     The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass;
     And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass,
     I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight,
     And build me stately palaces by candlelight.

Here are the plates showing the cityscape at night (I increased the contrast slightly):

With that, I am “closing the shutters and pulling the curtains tight” over this blog for a few weeks while I take time away from computer screens and enjoy the holidays.

Of course I’ll continue to ship books to customers who order them from The Obolus Press, but the digital fast and real-life feasting begins today.

Best wishes to the friends and strangers who follow along here. I’ll return in 2026.

1. Paysage, tr. George Dillon (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1936)