French Poet, Art Critic
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
French Poet, Art Critic
The form of a town changes more swiftly alas! than the heart of a mortal.
The misery of the cuckold. It springs from his pride, from a false conception of honor and of happiness, and from a love foolishly turned from God to be attributed to creatures. It is ever the worshipping animal deluded with its idol.
The Poet is a kinsman in the clouds Who scoffs at archers, loves a stormy day; But on the ground, among the hooting crowds, He cannot walk, his wings are in the way.
The study of beauty is a duel in which the artist cries out in terror before being defeated.
The young girl, ghost, monster, murderer of art. A young girl, as she really is. Small and silly little bastard; utterly stupidity and depravity blend. early phases of the girl has all the characteristics of the feeble and school son.
There is in all change something at once agreeable and infamous, something that smacks of infidelity and of moving day.
This life is a hospital where each patient is possessed by the desire to change his bed.
To love intelligent women is the pleasure of a pederast.
We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose.
In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.
It is not given to everyone you take a bath crowd; enjoy the crowd is an art; and can only be at the expense of the human race a binge of vitality one whom a fairy breathed into the cradle taste of disguise and the mask, hatred of the home and the passion of the trip. Multitude, solitude: equal terms and convertibles for active and fertile poet. He who knows not populate his solitude, does not know to be alone in a busy crowd. It enjoys the incomparable poet privilege to be his cooks it and be others. As the wandering souls in search of the body, comes when he wants in the person of each. Only it's all vacant; and if certain places seem to keep open no longer, it is that your eyes are not worth a visit. The solitary and thoughtful stroller shows a singular intoxication in this universal communion. Which easily she marries the crowd knows feverish pleasures, who will be eternally deprived the selfish, locked like a coffer, and lazy, internal like a mollusk. Adopter of all professions, all joys and all the miseries that circumstances offer. What we call love men is more than enough small, left over restricted and weak, compared with this ineffable orgy, with this holy prostitution of the soul which is gives all her poetry and charity, to the unexpected is revealed, the unknown happens. Good is ever the happy of this world, if only to humiliate an instant their foolish pride, that there are higher ventures to his, larger and more refined. The founders of colonies, shepherds of peoples, missionary priests exiled in the externality of the world, know, certainly something of these mysterious intoxications; and within the vast family that his genius was formed, ever have to laugh at those who pity them for their fortune, so agitated, and his life, so chaste.
It's the devil who pulls the strings that make us dance.
Looking from outside into an open window one never sees as much as when one looks through a closed window. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a window lighted by a single candle. What one can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what goes on behind a windowpane. In that black or luminous square life lives, life dreams, life suffers.
My soul travels on the smell of perfume like the souls of other men on music.
O Death, Captain, it's time, let us raise anchor! We disgusts this earth, O Death! You have to set sail! If you are ink black sky and sea which we see, our breasts, which only know shine. Pour on us poison comforting! as burn this fire in the brain take, plumb the abyss, Heaven, Hell: what does it matter? To the bottom of the unknown to find the new!
One night the soul of wine sang in the bottles:! Man, to you I lift up, oh dear disinherited, Under my glass prison and my vermilion ceilings; a heaping song of light and brotherhood.
Pure draughts men are philosophers and dialecticians. Colorists are epic poets.
So you see how difficult it is to Understand one another, my dear angel, how incommunicable thought is, even Between two people in love.
The beautiful is always bizarre.
The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he doesn't exist.
The mixture of the grotesque and the tragic is agreeable to the spirit, as are discords to the jaded ear.
The Poet is like the prince of the clouds who haunts the storm and laughs at the archer; exiled on earth amid jeers, his giant wings prevent him from walking.
The study of beauty is a duel where the artist screams of fright before being defeated.
Theology. What is the fall? If it is unity become duality, it is God who has fallen. In other words, is not creation the fall of God?
There is no dream of love, however ideal it may be, which does not end up with a fat, greedy baby hanging from the breast.