Charles Pierre Baudelaire

Charles Pierre

French Poet, Art Critic

Author Quotes

The insatiable thirst for everything which lies beyond, & which life reveals is the most living proof of our immortality.

The observer is a prince who enjoys his incognito everywhere. The lover of life makes the world his family, just as the lover of the fair sex devises his family from all discovered, discoverable and undiscoverable beauties; as the lover of pictures lives in an enchanted society of painted dreams on canvas.

The sap rises and, itself a mixture of elements, flowers in a mixture of tones; the trees, the rocks, the granites cast their reflections in the mirror of the water; all the transparent objects seize and imprison color reflections, both close and distant, as the light passes through them. As the star of day moves, the tones change in value, but always respect. Their mutual sympathies and Natural hatreds, and continue to live in harmony by reciprocal Concessions. The shadows move slowly and drive before them or blot out the tones as the light itself, changing position, sets vibrating others. These mingle their reflections, and, modifying their qualities by casting them over and borrowed transparent glazes, multiply to infinity Their melodious marriages and make them Easier to achieve. When the great ball of fire sinks into the waters, network fanfares fly in all directions, a blood-red harmony spreads over the horizon, turns green to a deep red. But soon vast blue shadows chase them rhythmically before the crowd of orange and soft tones, which are like the distant and muted echoes of the light. This great symphony of today, which is the eternally Renewed variation of the symphony of yesterday, it is a succession of melodies, Where the variety comes always from the infinite, it is a complex hymn is called color.

The vices of man, as full of horror as one might suppose them to be, contain the proof (if in nothing else but their infinitely expandable nature) of his taste for the infinite; only, it is a taste that often takes a wrong turn.

There are purely contemplative natures, improper fully for action, which, however, thanks to a mysterious and unknown impulse, sometimes act quickly they had believed incapable. He who, fearing the goalkeeper to give you a sad news an hour hanging around your door without daring to go home passed; which retains fifteen days a letter without opening it or not resigned until six months give a necessary step from a year earlier, they come to feel ever suddenly precipitated into action by an irresistible force, like the arrow of a bow. The moralist and the doctor, who claim to know everything, cannot explain where it comes from them lazy and voluptuous souls so sudden and crazy energy, and how, unable to carry through as simple and necessary, are at a given moment a value luxury to run the most absurd and even the most dangerous acts. a friend of mine, the most harmless dreamer who ever lived, caught once fire to a forest, to see, he said, if the fire spread as easily as often it said. Ten times the experiment failed; but at the eleventh they had to leave too well. Another lit a cigar next to a powder keg, to see, to know, to tempt fate, to force yourself to test power, to give them player to experience the pleasures of . anxiety, for nothing, on a whim, for lack of endeavor is a kind of energy that flows from boredom and digression; and those in whom it manifests so frankly often, as I said, more indolent creatures, the most dreamers.

There, all is order and beauty only, splendor, peace, and pleasure.

To be wicked is never excusable, but there is some merit in knowing that you are; the most irreparable of vices is to do evil from stupidity.

Twilight, how gentle you are and how tender! The rosy lights that still linger on the horizon, like the last agony of day under the conquering might of its night; the flaring candle-flames that stain with dull red the last glories of the sunset; the heavy draperies that an invisible hand draws out of the depths of the East, mimic all those complex feelings that war on one another in the heart of man at the solemn moments of life.

In order for the artist to have a world to express he must first be situated in this world, oppressed or oppressing, resigned or rebellious, a man among men.

It is at despair at not being able to be noble and beautiful by natural means that we have made up our faces so strangely.

It is this admirable, this immortal, instinctive sense of beauty that leads us to look upon the spectacle of this world as a glimpse, a correspondence with heaven. Our unquenchable thirst for all that lies beyond, and that life reveals, is the liveliest proof of our immortality. It is both by poetry and through poetry, by music and through music, that the soul dimly descries the splendors beyond the tomb; and when an exquisite poem brings tears to our eyes, those tears are not a proof of overabundant joy: they bear witness rather to an impatient melancholy, a clamant demand by our nerves, our nature, exiled in imperfection, which would fain enter into immediate possession, while still on this earth, of a revealed paradise.

Let us beware of common folk, of common sense, of sentiment, of inspiration, and of the obvious.

Metamorphoses Vampire: Women, meanwhile, I squirming like a snake in the coals, and kneaded her breasts over whales corset let slip from his mouth Strawberry these impregnated words musk: - I have moist lips and I know the science of losing in a bed the old consciousness. Dry all tears on my triumphant breasts and make that old laugh with children's laughter. For who sees me naked and without veils, I replace the moon, the sun, the sky and the stars! When I imprisoned a man in my dreaded arms, or when I leave my bust nibbles, timid and licentious, frail and robust, I am, my dear sage, so expert in delights that on that mattress that swoons emotion, important angels condemn me!

No man can bare His heart quite naked; there will always be something held back, something false ostentatiously thrust forward.

Oh, Creator! Can monsters exist in the sight of him who alone knows how they were invented, how they invented themselves, and how they might not have invented themselves?

Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently.

Satan or God, who cares! Angel or Siren, who cares if you make - fairy with velvet eyes, rhythm, perfume, glimmer, O my only queen! - The universe less hideous and lighter moments?

Sudden as a knife you thrust into my sorry heart and strong as a host of demons came, gaudy and libertine, to make in my corrupted mind your bed and bedlam there; Beast, who bind me to you close as convict to his chains.

The death of artists. How many times have I shake my bells and kiss your dastardly face, sad caricature? How many arrows have to waste, oh my quiver, to give in that white mystical character? We will use our soul in subtle intrigues, and demolish over heavy armor, before contemplating the great creature whose infernal desire fills us with sobs! There are those who never met his idol, and those convicted and marked by opprobrium sculptors, who hit his forehead and chest, have no other hope, strange and somber Capitol! But Death, hovering like a new sun, make your brain flowers open.

The lamp having at last resigned itself to death. There was nothing now but firelight in the room, and every time a flame uttered a gasp for breath it flushed her amber skin with the blood of its bloom.

The old Paris is no more (the form of a city changes faster, alas! than a mortal's heart).

The sea conveys the thought both of immensity and of movement. Six or seven leagues are for man the radius of the infinite. 'Tis a diminutive infinite. What matter, if it suffice to suggest the whole?

The whole visible universe is but a storehouse of images and signs to which the imagination will give a relative place and value; it is a sort of pasture which the imagination must digest and transform.

There are some temptations which are so strong that they must be virtues.

There, there is nothing else but grace and measure, richness, quietness, and pleasure.

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Charles Pierre
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French Poet, Art Critic