Charles Baudelaire Quotes
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Progress, this great heresy of decay.
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Il y a dans tout homme, à toute heure, deux postulations simultanées, l'une vers Dieu, l'autre vers Satan.
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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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Those men get along best with women who can get along best without them.
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There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start.
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France is not poetic; she even feels, in fact, a congenital horror of poetry. Among the writers who use verse, those whom she will always prefer are the most prosaic.
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Plus l'homme cultive les arts, moins il bande.
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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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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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There is no more steely barb than that of the Infinite.
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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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Il n'existe que trois êtres respectables: le prêtre, le guerrier, le poète. Savoir, tuer et créer. Les autres hommes sont taillables et corvéables, faits pour l'écurie, c'est-à-dire pour exercer ce qu'on appelle des professions.
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A sweetheart is a bottle of wine, a wife is a wine bottle.
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Genius is childhood recalled at will.
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Un artiste n'est un artiste que grâce à son sens exquis du beau, - sens qui lui procure des jouissances enivrantes, mais qui en même temps implique, enferme un sens également exquis de toute difformité et de toute disproportion.
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All which is beautiful and noble is the result of reason and calculation.
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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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Nature... is nothing but the inner voice of self-interest.
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A frenzied passion for art is a canker that devours everything else.
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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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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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To be a great man and a saint for oneself, that is the only important thing.
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Music fathoms the sky.