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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
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Writer
Paris
France
Baudelaire
Charles Pierre Baudelaire-Dufaÿs
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Littles
Memory
Little
Save
Men
Remains
Memories
Literature
Suffering
Form
Remember
Remembering
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
It would be difficult for me not to conclude that the most perfect type of masculine beauty is Satan, as portrayed by Milton.
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I think I would be happy in that place I happen not to be, and this question of moving house is the subject of a perpetual dialogue I have with my soul.
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The act of love strongly resembles torture or surgery.
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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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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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If wine were to disappear from human production, I believe it would cause an absence, a failure in health and intellect, a void much more terrifying than all the recesses and the deviations for which wine is regarded as responsible.
Charles Baudelaire
Everything, alas, is an abyss, actions, desires, dreams, words!
Charles Baudelaire
To be just, that is to say, to justify its existence, criticism should be partial, passionate and political, that is to say, written from an exclusive point of view, but a point of view that opens up the widest horizons.
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From that moment onwards, our loathsome society rushed, like Narcissus, to contemplate its trivial image on a metallic plate. A form of lunacy, an extraordinary fanaticism took hold of these new sun-worshippers.
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I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.
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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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What could be more simple and more complex, more obvious and more profound than a portrait.
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The form of a town changes more swiftly alas! Than the heart of a mortal.
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Amer savoir, celui qu'on tire du voyage! Bitter is the knowledge gained in travelling.
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Nature is a temple, where the living Columns sometimes breathe confusing speech Man walks within these groves of symbols, each Of which regards him as a kindred thing.
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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.
Charles Baudelaire
Even if it were proven that God didn't exist, Religion would still be Saintly and Divine.
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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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As the end of the century approaches, all our culture is like flies at the beginning of winter. Having lost their agility, dreamy and demented, they turn slowly about the window in the first icy mists of morning, . . . [then] they fall down the curtains.
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Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam, Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.
Charles Baudelaire
