French Poet, Art Critic
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
French Poet, Art Critic
With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.
In order not to feel time's horrid fardel bruise your shoulders, grinding you into the earth, get drunk and stay that way. On what? On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever. But get drunk!
It is at once by way of poetry and through poetry, as with music, that the soul glimpses splendors from beyond the tomb; and when an exquisite poem brings one's eyes to the point of tears, those tears are not evidence of an excess of joy, they are witness far more to an exacerbated melancholy, a disposition of the nerves, a nature exiled among imperfect things, which would like to possess, without delay, a paradise revealed on this very same earth.
It is time to get drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk without stopping! On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish.
Life has but one true charm: the charm of the game. But what if we?re indifferent to whether we win or lose?
Modernity is the transitory, the fugitive, the contingent, which make up one half of art, the other being the eternal and the immutable. This transitory fugitive element, which is constantly changing, must not be despised or neglected.
No task is a long one but the task on which one dare not start. It becomes a nightmare.
On the day when a young writer corrects his first proof-sheet he is as proud as a schoolboy who has just got his first dose of pox.
Perhaps it would be sweet to be, in turn, both victim and executioner.
Satan pain, suffering exhaustion following the Poverty me! Do you oppressed, you're a leper, even loving the taste of heaven that fills the interior.
Tell me, enigmatical man, whom do you love best, your father, Your mother, your sister, or your brother? I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother. Your friends? Now you use a word whose meaning I have never known. Your country? I do not know in what latitude it lies. Beauty? I could indeed love her, Goddess and Immortal. Gold? I hate it as you hate God. Then, what do you love, extraordinary stranger? I love the clouds the clouds that pass up there Up there the wonderful clouds!
The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance; we find delight in the most loathsome things; some furtherance of Hell each new day brings, and yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.
The life of our city is rich in poetic and marvelous subjects. We are enveloped and steeped as though in an atmosphere of the marvelous; but we do not notice it.
The owls: under the overhanging yews, the dark owls sit in solemn state, like stranger gods; by twos and twos their red eyes gleam. They meditate. Motionless thus they sit and dream until that melancholy hour when, with the sun's last fading gleam, the nightly shades assume their power. From their still attitude the wise will learn with terror to despise all tumult, movement, and unrest; for he who follows every shade, carries the memory in his breast, of each unhappy journey made.
The snake dancing. What I like to see, dear indolent of your body so beautiful, like a flickering stuff, Shimmering Skin! Upon your heavy hair Aux acres perfumes, odorant sea With blue and brown waves, like a ship awakening the morning wind, My dreamy soul sets sail For a distant sky. Your eyes where nothing is revealed by sweet or bitter, are two cold jewels that combines gold with iron. To see you walk rhythmically, Belle abandonment, seems like a snake dance at the end of a stick. Under the weight of your laziness your child's head if balanced softness from a young elephant, and your body bends and s 'lengthens Like a fine ship That rolls from side to side and dips Its yards in the water. Like a stream swollen by melting the rumbling glaciers, When the water of your mouth back the edge of your teeth, I think drinking a wine bohemian, Amer and winner, A liquid sky that scatters D'stars my heart!
The will to work must dominate, for art is long and time is brief.
There are women who inspire desire to overcome them or enjoy them; but it slowly infuses the desire to die before his eyes.
These beings have no other status, but that of cultivating the idea of beauty in their own persons, of satisfying their passions, of feeling and thinking... Contrary to what many thoughtless people seem to believe, dandyism is not even an excessive delight in clothes and material elegance. For the perfect dandy, these things are no more than the symbol of the aristocratic superiority of his mind.
To dream magnificently is not a gift given to all men, and even for those who possess it, it runs a strong risk of being progressively diminished by the ever-growing dissipation of modern life and by the restlessness engendered by material progress. The ability to dream is a divine and mysterious ability; because it is through dreams that man communicates with the shadowy world which surrounds him. But this power needs solitude to develop freely; the more one concentrates, the more one is likely to dream fully, deeply.
Unable to do away with love, the Church found a way to decontaminate it by creating marriage.
In our corruption we perceive beauties unrevealed to ancient times.
It is beautiful and more than beautiful: it's amazing. What it abounds black; and it is nocturnal and deep as inspiration. His eyes are twinkling stars in the mystery vaguely, his eyes lit up like lightning: it is an explosion in darkness.
It is unfortunately very true that, without leisure and money, love can be no more than an orgy of the common man. Instead of being a sudden impulse full of ardor and reverie, it becomes a distastefully utilitarian affair.
Life is a hospital in which every patient is possessed by the desire of changing his bed. One would prefer to suffer near the fire, and another is certain he would get well if he were by the window.
Multitude, solitude: equal and interchangeable terms for the active and prolific poet.