Charles Baudelaire Quotes
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It is the hour to be drunken! to escape being the martyred slaves of time, be ceaselessly drunk. On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish.
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Modernity is the transient, the fleeting, the contingent; it is one half of art, the other being the eternal and the immovable.
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A sweetheart is a bottle of wine, a wife is a wine bottle.
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A frenzied passion for art is a canker that devours everything else.
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This life is a hospital in which every patient is possessed with a desire to change his bed.
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Swarming city, city full of dreams, Where the ghosts in broad daylight hang up the passers-by!
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Le génie n'est que l'enfance retrouvée à volonté, l'enfance douée maintenant, pour s'exprimer, d'organes virils et de l'esprit analytique qui lui permet d'ordonner la somme de matériaux involontairement amassée.
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Music fathoms the sky.
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How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.
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La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliersLaissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;L’homme y passe à travers des forêts de symbolesQui l’observent avec des regards familiers.
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All which is beautiful and noble is the result of reason and calculation.
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Et à quoi bon exécuter des projets, puisque le projet est en lui-même une jouissance suffisante?
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'En toi je tomberai, végétale ambroisie,Grain précieux jeté par l'éternel Semeur,Pour que de notre amour naisse la poésieQui jaillira vers Dieu comme une rare fleur!'
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Everything for me becomes allegory.
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Ne cherchez plus mon cœur; des monstres l’ont mangé.
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It is time to get drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk without stopping! On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish.
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I consider it useless and tedious to represent what exists, because nothing that exists satisfies me. Nature is ugly, and I prefer the monsters of my fancy to what is positively trivial.
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But a dandy can never be a vulgar man.
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If rape, poison, daggers, arsonHave not yet embroidered with their pleasing designsThe banal canvas of our pitiable lives,It is because our souls have not enough boldness.
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It is by universal misunderstanding that all agree. For if, by ill luck, people understood each other, they would never agree.
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Any newspaper, from the first line to the last, is nothing but a web of horrors, I cannot understand how an innocent hand can touch a newspaper without convulsing in disgust.
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Tous les grands poètes deviennent naturellement, fatalement, critiques.
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I have more memories than if I were a thousand years old.
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I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.