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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
Three
Worthy
Dignity
Kill
Exist
Beings
Priest
Poet
Poetic
Respect
Priests
Create
Soldier
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
Pure draughtsmen are philosophers and dialecticians. Colourists are epic poets.
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If the word doesn't exist, invent it but first be sure it doesn't exist.
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Hashish will be, indeed, for the impressions and familiar thoughts of the man, a mirror which magnifies, yet no more than a mirror.
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Imagination is an almost divine faculty which, without recourse to any philosophical method, immediately perceives everything: the secret and intimate connections between things, correspondences and analogies.
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...an industry which can furnish results identical to nature must be the absolute in art.
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To handle a language skillfully is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
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The People adore authority.
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The man who says his evening prayer is a captain posting his sentinels. He can sleep.
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There is no more steely barb than that of the Infinite.
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Modernity is the transient, the fleeting, the contingent it is one half of art, the other being the eternal and the immovable.
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This industry [photography], by invading the territories of art, has become art's most mortal enemy.
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An oasis of horror in a desert of boredom.
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A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.
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He who looks through an open window sees fewer things than he who looks through a closed window.
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Romanticism is precisely situated neither in choice of subject, nor exact truth, but in the way of feeling.
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Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently.
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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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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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Always be drunk ... Get drunk militantly. Just get drunk.
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In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.
Charles Baudelaire
