Charles Pierre Baudelaire

Charles Pierre

French Poet, Art Critic

Author Quotes

It is the hour when the swarm of malevolent dreams makes sun-browned adolescents writhe upon their pillows.

Lesbos: Mother of Latin games and Greek delights, Lesbos, where kisses, languid or joyous, warm and soles, fresh and watermelons, are the adornment of nights and glorious days; mother of Latin games and Greek delights. Lesbos, where kisses are as waterfalls that throw themselves fearlessly into the depths bottomless, and flowing, staccato sobs and laughter, stormy and secret, teeming and profound; Lesbos, where kisses are like cascades! ?Of Sappho virile, the lover and the poet, for its beautiful sad pallor Venus! -at beat black blue eye that sullies the dark circle traced by the penalties virile Sappho, the lover and the poet! Presenting the world's beautiful Venus and pouring the treasure of serenity and brightness of her blond youth, about the old love with his daughter Ocean; presenting the most beautiful world that Venus! Of Sappho who died the day of her blasphemy, when, insulting the rite and worship established, she turned her beautiful body in supreme grass with a gross whose pride punished the impiety of those who died the day of her blasphemy, and since then Lesbos launches lamentations, and despite the honors taxed him the world, every night will intoxicates the voice of the storm, what a skyward its deserted shores! And since then Lesbos launches lamentations!

Man loves man so much that when he flees the city, it is still to seek the crowd, that is, to rebuild the city in the country.

Nature is a word, an allegory, a mold, an embossing, if you will.

Oh night! Oh refreshing darkness! You guys are inside me sign party, you are releasing a distress! In the solitude of the plains, in the stony labyrinths of a capital city, twinkling stars, exploding flashlights, you are the fireworks of the goddess Liberty! Twilight, how sweet and tender you are! The gleams rosy souls of the chandeliers that put spots of a dull red in the past glories of the West are still moves on the horizon, as agonize the day under the victorious oppression of the night, heavy draperies run an invisible hand from the depths of the East, all the complicated feelings begin fighting within the heart of man in the solemn hours of life.

Our squalid society rushed, Narcissus to a man, to gaze on its trivial image on a scrap of metal.

Romanticism is precisely situated neither in choice of subject, nor exact truth, but in the way of feeling.

Stop looking for my heart; of the monsters ate.

The child, in love with prints and maps, holds the whole world in his vast appetite. How large the earth is under the lamplight! But in the eyes of memory, how the world is cramped!

The immense appetite we have for biography comes from a deep-seated sense of equality.

The more one works, the better one works, and the more one wants to work. The more one produces, the more fertile one grows.

The room was filled with deep, raucous sighs, sudden sobs, silent floods of tears. The horrified musician stopped, and going up to the man whose bliss was expressing itself most noisily, he asked him if he was in great pain and what would help to relieve it. But the sick man, his eyes gleaming ecstatically, looked at him with unspeakable contempt. Fancy wanting to save a man sick with too much life, sick with joy!

The unique, supreme pleasure of love consists in the certainty of doing evil.

There are in every man, always, two simultaneous allegiances, one to God, the other to Satan. Invocation of God, or Spirituality, is a desire to climb higher; that of Satan, or animality, is delight in descent.

There where all is order and beauty. Lush, calm and voluptuous.

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.

Torture, as the art of discovering the truth, is barbaric nonsense; it is the application of a material means to a spiritual end.

In love, as in almost all cases between people's hearts harmony arises from a misunderstanding. This misunderstanding is a pleasure.

Isn't it true that a pleasant house makes winter more poetic, and doesn't winter add to the poetry of a house?

It is the pleasure of astonishing others, and the proud satisfaction of never being astonished by them.

Let me bite your long heavy black braids. When I nibble your elastic and rebellious hair, it seems that I eat memories.

Meanwhile, in the expansiveness of her joy, the Moon filled all of the room like a phosphoric atmosphere, like a luminous poison; and all of that living light thought and said: You will be eternally subject to the influence of my kiss. You will be beautiful in my manner. You will love what I love and who loves me: water, the clouds, silence, and the night; the immense, green sea; formless and multiform water; the place where you will not be; the lover you will not know; monstrous flowers; perfumes that make you delirious; cats who swoon on pianos, and who moan like women, with a hoarse, gentle voice!

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.

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Charles Pierre
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French Poet, Art Critic