French Poet, Art Critic
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
French Poet, Art Critic
The two good sisters Lust and Death are two friendly girls, you lavish kisses and rich in health, which always virgin and tatters belly despite the eternal culture, never came to fruition. At the sinister poet, foe, families favorite hell, courtier meager revenues, tombs and brothels show beneath their bowers a bed that never haunted remorse. and the coffin and fecund alcove in blasphemies in turn offer us, like two good sisters, terrible pleasures and frightful sweetness. Lust unclean arms, when you want to bury me? And you, Death, her rival in attractive, when will you come to engraft in their infectos myrtles your dark cypresses?
There are as many kinds of beauty as there are habitual ways of seeking happiness.
There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start.
To be a great man and a saint for oneself, that is the only important thing.
Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
Indeed, for my part, I shall be happy to leave A world where action is not sister to the dream.
It is the hour to be drunken! to escape being the martyred slaves of time, be ceaselessly drunk. On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish.
Laments of an Icarus the paramours of courtesans are well and satisfied, content. But as for me my limbs are rent because i clasped the clouds as mine. I owe it to the peerless stars which flame in the remotest sky that I see only with spent eyes Remembered suns I knew before. In vain I had at heart to find the center and the end of space. Beneath some burning, unknown gaze I feel my very wings unpinned and, burned because I beauty loved, I shall not know the highest bliss, and give my name to the abyss which waits to claim me as its own.
Love is the natural occupation of the man of leisure.
Nature is a temple, where the living columns sometimes breathe confusing speech; man walks within these groves of symbols, each of which regards him as a kindred thing.
Oh Lesbos, where the languid or joyous, ardent kisses like suns, fresh like watermelons are ornament of nights and days of glory.
Our religion is itself profoundly sad -- a religion of universal anguish, and one which, because of its very catholicity, grants full liberty to the individual and asks no better than to be celebrated in each man's own language -- so long as he knows anguish and is a painter.
Rhythm, perfume, light, o my only queen.
Spleen: I'm like the king of a rainy country, rich but impotent, young and yet very old, who, scorning its tutors bowing, bored with his dogs as with other beasts. Nothing can 'cheer him, neither game nor falcon. Nor his people dying in front of the balcony from the grotesque buffoon favorite ballad do distracted over the front of this cruel invalid; his fleurdelis‚ bed turns into the tomb, and the ladies of the bedchamber, for that every prince is handsome, do know more find toiletries immodest to draw a smile from this young skeleton. The scientist who made ??him gold could never from its being root out corrupt element, and in these baths of blood of the romans come to us, and which in their old age the powerful recall, I?ll has managed to warm this dazed cadaver Where flowing instead of blood the green water of Lethe I'm like the king of a rain-country, rich goal sterile, young goal with an old wolf's itch, one Who escapes His tutor's monologues, and kills the day in boredom with His dogs; nothing cheers him, darts, tennis, falconry, His people dying by the balcony; the bawdry of the pet hermaphrodite No. skirt gets him through a single night; His bed of fleur-de-lis Becomes a tomb; -even the ladies of the court, for Whom all kings are beautiful, cannot put it shameful enough dresses for this skeleton; the scholar who makes His gold cannot invent washes to cleanse the poisoned element; -even in baths of blood, Rome's legacy, our tyrants' solace in senility, he cannot warm up His shot corpse, Whose food is syrup-green Lethean ooze, not blood.
The Cat: Come, my beautiful cat, on my heart in love; Hold the claws of your paw, And let me plunge into your beautiful eyes, metal Mingled and agate. When my fingers caress at leisure your head and your back elastic, and my hand gets drunk pleasure of feeling your electric body, I see my wife in mind. His gaze, like yours, amiable beast, Profound and cold, cuts and cleaves like a dart and foot even to the head, A subtle air, a dangerous perfume, Swim around her brown body.
The idea which man forms of beauty imprints itself throughout his attire, rumples or stiffens his garments, rounds off or aligns his gestures, and, finally, even subtly penetrates the features of his face.
The more delicate and ambitious the soul, the further do dreams estrange it from possible things.
The Revolution had been made by voluptuaries.
The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing evil. And men and women know from birth that in evil is found all sensual delight.
There are but three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the warrior and the poet. To know, to kill and to create. The rest of mankind may be taxed and drudged, they are born for the stable, that is to say, to practice what they call professions.
There is no sweeter pleasure than to surprise a man by giving him more than he hopes for.
To be a useful man - I think there has always been something very repulsive.
Today I had a strange warning. I felt the wind of insanity brush my mind.
In literature as in ethics, there is danger, as well as glory, in being subtle. Aristocracy isolates us.
Inspiration comes of working every day.