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The man who says his evening prayer is a captain posting his sentinels. He can sleep.
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
Sleep
Literature
Sentinels
Men
Posting
Captain
Captains
Evening
Says
Prayer
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
Being a useful man has always seemed to me to be something truly hideous.
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Our squalid society rushed, Narcissus to a man, to gaze on its trivial image on a scrap of metal.
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Our religion is itself profoundly sad - a religion of universal anguish, and one which, because of its very catholicity, grants full liberty to the individual and asks no better than to be celebrated in each man's own language - so long as he knows anguish and is a painter.
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A child sees everything in a sense of newness - he is always drunk. Genius is nothing but childhood re-attained at will.
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Like those great sphinxes lounging through eternity in noble attitudes upon the desert sand, they gaze incuriously at nothing, calm and wise.
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That in all times, mediocrity has dominated, that is indubitable but that it reigns more than ever, that it is becoming absolutely triumphant and inhibiting, this is what is as true as it is distressing.
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Any man who does not accept the conditions of life sells his soul.
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The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing evil. And men and women know from birth that in evil is found all sensual delight.
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Through the Unknown, we'll find the New
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To glorify the cult of images (my great, my only, my earliest passion).
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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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There is a certain cowardice, a certain weakness, rather, among respectable folk. Only brigands are convinced-of what? That they must succeed. And so they do succeed.
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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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A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors.
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Nothing can be done except little by little.
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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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Beware of all the paradoxical in love. It is simplicity which saves, it is simplicity which brings happiness...Love should be love.
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Wine transforms moles into eagles.
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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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Always be a poet, even in prose.
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