French Poet, Art Critic
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
French Poet, Art Critic
Nature... is nothing but the inner voice of self-interest.
Oh pain! Oh pain! Time eats our lives.
Over your unconsecrated head you'll hear the howling wolves lament their fate and yours the livelong year.
Samuel was, more than all the others, the man of failed works of beauty; - A fantastical and sickly creature, Whose poetry shines forth in His person much more than in His works, and who, around one o'clock in the morning, Between the dazzling of a coal fire and the clock's tick-tock, always Seemed to be the god of impotence - a modern and hermaphrodite god, - so colossal an impotence, so enormous, reaching epic proportions!
Strangeness is an ingredient necessary in beauty.
The crowd is his element, as the air is that of birds and water of fishes. His passion and his profession are to become one flesh with the crowd. For the perfect flƒneur, for the passionate spectator, it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in the midst of the fugitive and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the center of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world - impartial natures which the tongue can but clumsily define. The spectator is a prince who everywhere rejoices in his incognito. The lover of life makes the whole world his family, just like the lover of the fair sex who builds up his family from all the beautiful women that he has ever found, or that are or are not - to be found; or the lover of pictures who lives in a magical society of dreams painted on canvas. Thus the lover of universal life enters into the crowd as though it were an immense reservoir of electrical energy. Or we might liken him to a mirror as vast as the crowd itself; or to a kaleidoscope gifted with consciousness, responding to each one of its movements and reproducing the multiplicity of life and the flickering grace of all the elements of life.
The immense profundity of thought in vulgar locutions, like holes dug by generations of ants.
The most beautiful of the devil's tricks is to persuade you that he does not exist.
The saddest thing is that every love has an unhappy ending, and all the more unhappy in proportion to how divinely it began, with what wings it first took flight.
The universe less hideous, each moment less strained?
There are moments of existence when time and space are more profound, and the awareness of existence is immensely heightened.
There, all is order and beauty luxury, calm and voluptuousness there, there is nothing else aim grace and measure, richness, quietness, and pleasure.
To be just, that is to say, to justify its existence, criticism should be partial, passionate and political, that is to say, written from an exclusive point of view, but a point of view that opens up the widest horizons.
True Civilization does not lie in gas, nor in steam, nor in turn-tables. It lies in the reduction of the traces of original sin.
In my mind it strolls, as well as in my apartment. A cat, strong, sweet and delightful.
It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not.
It is this admirable and immortal instinct for beauty which causes us to regard the earth and its spectacles as a glimpse, a correspondence of the beyond.
Let me breathe a long, long time, the smell of your hair; immerse in them the face, like a thirsty man in spring water, and shake my hand, as odoriferous handkerchief, to shake memories into the air. If you could know everything I see! Everything I feel! Everything I hear in your hair! My soul travels in the perfume and soul of other men in music. Your hair contains a dream all full of sails and masts; contain vast seas whose monsoons carry me to climates of charm, where space is bluer and deeper, where the atmosphere is perfumed by the fruit, the leaves and by human skin. In the ocean of your hair glimpse a port in that swarm melancholy songs, mighty men of every nation and ships of all forms, which cut its fine and complicated architectures in an immense sky in which eternal warmth sprawls. in the caresses of your hair back to find the languor of the long hours spent on a couch, in the chamber of a beautiful ship, rocked by the imperceptible rolling of the port, between pots and refreshing jugs. in the burning home of your hair breathe the smell of sugar mixed with opium and snuff; on the night of your hair shine I see the infinity of tropical blue; on the downy shores of your hair I get drunk with the combined odors of cotton, musk and coconut oil. Let me bite your tresses long, heavy and black. When I nibble your elastic and rebellious hair, it seems to me as souvenirs.
Melancholy is the illustrious companion of beauty; it is so that I can conceive of no beauty that brings with it sorrow.
Nearly all our originality comes from the stamp that time impresses upon our sensibility.
Oh, candid minds! For the key issue not forget, everywhere we have seen without looking for it, from the sublime to the bottom of the fatal ladder, the tedious spectacle of immortal sin: 'Woman, vile slave , and proud, that adoring laughs and loves bestial, man, greedy despot of licentious soul slave of the slave and tributary sewer; the joyful executioner, the sobbing martyr; feast that season soul and perfumes; poison exultant power of the tyrant, and the people, faithful to whip it humbles and overwhelms; religions that resemble ours, odes towards the sky; Pure Holiness, such in bed pen any prudish shown, looking at the hair shirt voluptuousness, Gabby Humanity, which his genius obstinacy and mad, now as before, with light witness, cries out to God in his choleric agony: Oh you, my fellow man, master, I curse you! .
Over your unconsecrated head you'll hear the howling wolves lament their fate and yours the livelong year;
Satan be praised! Glory to you on High where once you reigned in Heaven, and in the pit where now you dream in taciturn defeat! Grant that my soul, one day, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, meet you when above your brow its branches, like a second Temple, spread!
Strolling hand in my chest unconscious; seeking the check, darling, there was a place that was looted of predatory teeth, the woman with nails. now my heart's search; seven animals. My heart of a ruined palace crowd; murders, full of fights! -A fear of swimming naked chest around you.
The dance can reveal everything mysterious that is hidden in music, and it has the additional merit of being human and palpable. Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.