French Poet, Art Critic
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
French Poet, Art Critic
My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.
Nothing mysterious: the ordinary pain of being alive.
One can only forget about time by making use of it.
Prisoned in glass beneath my seals of red.
Since photography gives us every guarantee of exactitude that we could desire (they really believe that, the mad fools!), then photography and art are the same thing.
The act of love greatly resembles torture or surgery.
The finest trick of the devil is to persuade you that he does not exist.
The man who says his evening prayer is a captain posting his sentinels. He can sleep.
The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself and others, as he wishes.
The story of my love is like an endless journey through a pure and smooth surface like a mirror, dizzyingly monotonous reflect all my feelings and gestures with the ironic accuracy of my own conscience, so I could not afford gesture or feeling that it was not reasonable without seeing immediately counterclaim my inseparable specter moves. Love appeared to me as a protection. How many nonsense prevented him to do, so I'm not having committed! How many debts paid against my will! I deprived them of all the benefits that could I draw from my own madness.
The world progresses only through misunderstanding.
There is a word, in a verb, something sacred which forbids us from using it recklessly. To handle a language cunningly is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
This life is a hospital in which each patient is possessed by the desire to change beds. One wants to suffer in front of the stove and another believes that he will get well near the window. It always seems to me that I will be better off there where I am not, and this question of moving about is one that I discuss endlessly with my soul Tell me, my soul, my poor chilled soul, what would you think about going to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and you'll be able to soak up the sun like a lizard there. That city is on the shore; they say that it is built all out of marble, and that the people there have such a hatred of the vegetable, that they tear down all the trees. There's a country after your own heart -- a landscape made out of light and mineral, and liquid to reflect them! My soul does not reply. Because you love rest so much, combined with the spectacle of movement, do you want to come and live in Holland, that beatifying land? Perhaps you will be entertained in that country whose image you have so often admired in museums. What do you think of Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts and ships anchored at the foot of houses? My soul remains mute. Does Batavia please you more, perhaps? There we would find, after all, the European spirit married to tropical beauty. Not a word. -- Is my soul dead? Have you then reached such a degree of torpor that you are only happy with your illness? If that's the case, let us flee toward lands that are the analogies of Death. -- I've got it, poor soul! We'll pack our bags for Torneo. Let's go even further, to the far end of the Baltic. Even further from life if that is possible: let's go live at the pole. There the sun only grazes the earth obliquely, and the slow alternation of light and darkness suppresses variety and augments monotony, that half of nothingness. There we could take long baths in the shadows, while, to entertain us, the aurora borealis send us from time to time its pink sheaf of sparkling light, like the reflection of fireworks in Hell! Finally, my soul explodes, and wisely she shrieks at me: It doesn't matter where! It doesn't matter where! As long as it's out of this world!
To love and to die in the land that is like you.
We are all born marked for evil.
In this black hole lives or bright life, dream life, life suffers.
It is necessary to work, if not from inclination, at least from despair. Everything considered, work is less boring than amusing oneself.
It would perhaps be nice to be alternately the victim and the executioner.
Loneliness is the proper state of genius and chosen.
My love, do you recall the object which we saw, that fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path a foul carcass on a gravel strewn bed, Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, burning and dripping with poisons, displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases.
Now is the time to get drunk! To stop being the martyred slaves of time, to get absolutely drunk - on wine, poetry, or on virtue, as you please.
One must astound the bourgeois.
Progress, this great heresy of decay.
So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, be endlessly drunk.
The artist is today and has been for many years, despite his absence of merit, simply a spoiled child. So many honors, so much money bestowed on men without souls and without education.