Charles Baudelaire Quotes
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I am unable to understand how a man of honor could take a newspaper in his hands without a shudder of disgust.
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Genius is childhood recalled at will.
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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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Nearly all our originality comes from the stamp that time impresses upon our sensibility.
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Nature... is nothing but the inner voice of self-interest.
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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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There is no more steely barb than that of the Infinite.
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Everything for me becomes allegory.
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A sweetheart is a bottle of wine, a wife is a wine bottle.
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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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All which is beautiful and noble is the result of reason and calculation.
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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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La plus belle des ruses du diable est de vous persuader qu'il n'existe pas.
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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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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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A frenzied passion for art is a canker that devours everything else.
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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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To be a great man and a saint for oneself, that is the only important thing.
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The life of our city is rich in poetic and marvelous subjects. We are enveloped and steeped as though in an atmosphere of the marvelous; but we do not notice it.
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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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Our religion is itself profoundly sad - a religion of universal anguish, and one which, because of its very catholicity, grants full liberty to the individual and asks no better than to be celebrated in each man's own language - so long as he knows anguish and is a painter.
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Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.
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I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.
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Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer.