Charles Pierre Baudelaire

Charles Pierre

French Poet, Art Critic

Author Quotes

What is annoying in love, is that it is a crime in which one cannot do without an accomplice.

Where are the dogs going? you people who pay so little attention ask. They are going about their business. And they are very punctilious, without wallets, notes, and without briefcases.

You are sitting and smoking; you believe that you are sitting in your pipe, and that your pipe is smoking you; you are exhaling yourself in bluish clouds. You feel just fine in this position, and only one thing gives you worry or concern: how will you ever be able to get out of your pipe?

What is art? Prostitution.

Where ever I am not is the place where I am myself.

You gave me your mud and I have turned it to gold.

What is exhilarating in bad taste is the aristocratic pleasure of giving offense.

Where one should see only what is beautiful, our public looks only for what is true.

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it-it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

We have psychologized like the insane, who aggravate their madness in struggling to understand it.

What is intoxicating about bad taste is the aristocratic pleasure of offensiveness.

Whether you come from heaven or hell, what does it matter, O Beauty!

You have to be sublime without interruption.

We have to add two rights to the list of human rights. The right to disorder and the right to leave

What is it that brings on these moods of yours?

Which one of us has not dreamed, on ambitious days, of the miracle of a poetic prose: musical, without rhythm or rhyme; adaptable enough and discordant enough to conform to the lyrical movements of the soul, the waves of revery, the jolts of consciousness? Above all else, it is residence in the teeming cities, it is the crossroads of numberless relations that gives birth to this obsessional ideal.

You shall suffer forever the influence of my kiss. You shall be beautiful in my fashion. You shall love that which I love and that which loves me: water, clouds, silence and the night; the immense green sea; the formless and multiform streams; the place where you shall not be; the lover whom you shall not know; flowers of monstrous shape; perfumes that cause delirium; cats that shudder, swoon and curl up on pianos and groan like women, with a voice that is hoarse and gentle! And you shall be loved by my lovers, courted by my courtiers. You shall be the queen of all men that have green eyes, whose necks also I have clasped in my nocturnal caresses; of those who love the sea, the sea that is immense, tumultuous and green, the formless and multiform streams, the place where they are not, the woman whom they do not know, sinister flowers that resemble the censers of a strange religion, perfumes that confound the will; and the savage and voluptuous animals which are the emblems of their dementia.

We looked oblivion-n love: what good! For me love is all a bed of thorns, made let these girls drinking terrible!

What is love? The need to come out of himself. Man is a doting animal. Worship is self-sacrifice? So it is all the love of prostitution. Of all the creatures prostitute is the highest creature, God, because he is each individual's supreme friend, because he is the common love , an inexhaustible source.

Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness.

You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.

We love women in proportion to their degree of strangeness to us.

What is that sad, black island like a pall? Why, Cytherea, famed in many a book, the Eldorado of old-stagers. Look: It's but a damned poor country after all!

Who are the unfortunates who did not calm afternoon, and take, like owls, the arrival of the night by signal coven?

We revel in the laxness of the path we take.

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Charles Pierre
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French Poet, Art Critic