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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.
Charles Baudelaire
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Charles Baudelaire
Age: 46 †
Born: 1821
Born: April 9
Died: 1867
Died: August 30
Art Critic
Author
Essayist
Literary Critic
Poet
Translator
Writer
Paris
France
Baudelaire
Charles Pierre Baudelaire-Dufaÿs
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Literature
Suffering
Form
Remember
Remembering
Littles
Memory
Little
Save
Men
Remains
Memories
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Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
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Woman is natural, that is to say, abominable.
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Unable to do away with love, the Church found a way to decontaminate it by creating marriage.
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Doubt, or the absence of faith and naivete, is a vice peculiar to this age, for no one is obedient nowadays and naivete, which means the dominance of temperament in the manner, is a gift from God, possessed by very few.
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The more a man cultivates the arts the less he fornicates. A more and more apparent cleavage occurs between the spirit and the brute.
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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.
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Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, and all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
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The habit of doing one's duty drives away fear.
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The beautiful is always bizarre.
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Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam, Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.
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La' , tout n'est qu'ordre et beaute , Luxe, calme et volupte . There where all is order and beauty. Lush, calm and voluptuous.
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Oh, Creator! Can monsters exist in the sight of him who alone knows how they were invented, how they invented themselves, and how they might not have invented themselves?
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On the vaporization and the centralization of the Self. All is there.
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What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?
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We are all born marked for evil.
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The act of love strongly resembles torture or surgery.
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Inspiration comes of working every day.
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Evil is done without effort, naturally, it's destiny good is always the product of skill.
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But the true voyagers are only those who leave Just to be leaving hearts light, like balloons, They never turn aside from their fatality And without knowing why they always say: Let's go!
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Nothing in a portrait is a matter of indifference. Gesture, grimace, clothing, decor even - all must combine to realize a character.
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