Charles Pierre Baudelaire

Charles Pierre
Baudelaire
1821
1867

French Poet, Art Critic

Author Quotes

This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to change beds; one man would like to suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover his health beside the window.

To say the word Romanticism is to say modern art -- that is, intimacy, spirituality, color, aspiration towards the infinite, expressed by every means available to the arts.

In this respect you, unworthy companion of my sad life, resemble the public, to whom one must never present the delicate scents that only exasperate them, but instead give them only dung, chosen with care.

It is one of the prodigious privileges of art that the horrific, artistically expressed, becomes beauty, and that sorrow, given rhythm and cadence, fills the spirit with a calm joy.

It's time, Old Captain, lift anchor, sink! The land rots; we shall sail into the night; if now the sky and sea are black as ink our hearts, as you must know, are filled with light. Only when we drink poison are we well ?we want, this fire so burns our brain tissue, to drown in the abyss ? heaven or hell, who cares? Through the unknown, we'll find the new.

Lord! give me the strength and the courage To see my heart and my body without disgust.

My well-beloved was stripped. Knowing my whim, she wore her tinkling gems, but naught besides: and showed such pride as, while her luck betides, a sultan's favored slave may show to him. When it lets off its lively, crackling sound, this blazing blend of metal crossed with stone, gives me an ecstasy I've only known where league of sound and luster can be found. She let herself be loved: then, drowsy-eyed, smiled down from her high couch in languid ease. My love was deep and gentle as the seas and rose to her as to a cliff the tide. My own approval of each dreamy pose, like a tamed tiger, cunningly she sighted: and candor, with lubricity united, gave piquancy to every one she chose. Her limbs and hips, burnished with changing lusters, before my eyes clairvoyant and serene, swanned themselves, undulating in their sheen; her breasts and belly, of my vine and clusters, like evil angels rose, my fancy twitting, to kill the peace which over me she'd thrown, and to disturb her from the crystal throne where, calm and solitary, she was sitting. So swerved her pelvis that, in one design, antelope?s white rump it seemed to graft to a boy's torso, merging fore and aft. The talc on her brown tan seemed half-divine. The lamp resigned its dying flame. Within, the hearth alone lit up the darkened air, and every time it sighed a crimson flare it drowned in blood that amber-colored skin.

O night! O refreshing dark! For me you are the summons to an inner feast, you are the deliverer from anguish! In the solitude of the plains, in the stony labyrinths of a city, scintillation of stars, outburst of gas-lamps, you are the fireworks of the goddess Liberty!

One night, the soul of wine was singing in the flask: "O man, dear disinherited! to you I sing this song full of light and of brotherhood from my prison of glass with its scarlet wax seals."

Regarding sleep, this sinister adventure of each night, one could say that people fall asleep daily with an audacity that would be incomprehensible if we didn't know that it results from their being oblivious of danger.

Soon we will plunge into the cold darkness; farewell, vivid brightness of our too-short summers!

The beginning of a novel: start a subject, no matter where, and to have the desire to finish, start with very beautiful phrases.

The habit of doing one's duty drives away fear.

The moral meaning of clothing. Satisfactions produced by the dressing.

The powerful oblivion lives on your lips, and Lethe flows in your kisses.

The taste for pleasure attaches us to the present. The concern with our salvation leaves us hanging on the future.

Theory of the true civilization. It is not to be found in gas or steam or table turning. It consists in the diminution of the traces of original sin.

There is no excuse for evil; but it is bad, if known, has some merit; the irreparable defect is to do evil for nonsense.

Those men get along best with women who can get along best without them.

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

In times of old when Nature in her glad excess brought forth such living marvels as no more are seen, I should have loved to dwell with a young giantess, like a voluptuous cat about the feet of a queen.

It is regrettable that, among the Rights of Man, the right of contradicting oneself has been forgotten.

Just last! You do not hear more than a few stragglers rolling cars and broken - backed. For a few hours we have silence, if not the rest. At last he disappeared tyranny of the human face, and only by me suffer!

Lost in this awful world, rubbing shoulders with the multitudes, I am like a tired man whose eye can't see behind him, in the deep years, anything but disillusion and bitterness, and in front of him, nothing but a storm which contains nothing new, neither learning nor pain.

My youth was a dark storm, Crossed here and there by brilliant suns; Thunder and rain have made ??such havoc, Let him stay in my garden very little crimson fruit.

Author Picture
First Name
Charles Pierre
Last Name
Baudelaire
Birth Date
1821
Death Date
1867
Bio

French Poet, Art Critic