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There exist only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create.

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
Poet
Poetic
Respect
Priests
Create
Soldier
Three
Worthy
Dignity
Kill
Exist
Beings
Priest

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How bittersweet it is, on winter's night, To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire, As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light, Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
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To handle a language skillfully is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
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Genius is simply childhood, rediscovered by an act of will.
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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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All the visible universe is nothing but a shop of images and signs.
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I am bored in France because everyone resembles Voltaire.
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An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.
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Life swarms with innocent monsters.
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Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.
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Life is a hospital in which every patient is possessed by a desire to change his bed.
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What do I care if you are good? Be beautiful! and be sad!
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...an industry which can furnish results identical to nature must be the absolute in art.
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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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Through the Unknown, we'll find the New
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This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to change beds one man would like to suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover his health beside the window.
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The cannon thunders... limbs fly in all directions... one can hear the groans of victims and the howling of those performing the sacrifice... it's Humanity in search of happiness.
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Amer savoir, celui qu'on tire du voyage! Bitter is the knowledge gained in travelling.
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Alas, human vices, however horrible one might imagine them to be, contain the proof (were it only in their infinite expansion) of man's longing for the infinite but it is a longing that often takes the wrong route. It is my belief that the reason behind all culpable excesses lies in this depravation of the sense of the infinite.
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France at the dinner table in faraway places but here, among ourselves, in the family, let us face the facts: France is not poetic to tell the truth, she even feels 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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Dancing can reveal all the mystery that music conceals.
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