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To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
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
Graves
Muffled
Near
Marches
Lonely
Cemetery
Heart
Drum
Life
Solemn
Like
Beating
Funeral
March
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
Beauty is the sole ambition, the exclusive goal of Taste.
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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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The more delicate and ambitious the soul, the further do dreams estrange it from possible things.
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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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Always be a poet, even in prose.
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A friend of mine, the most innocuous dreamer who ever lived, once set a forest on fire to see, as he said, if it would catch as easily as people said. The first ten times the experiment was a failure but on the eleventh it succeeded all too well.
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There are in every man, always, two simultaneous allegiances, one to God, the other to Satan. Invocation of God, or Spirituality, is a desire to climb higher that of Satan, or animality, is delight in descent.
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The world only goes round by misunderstanding.
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A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.
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Genius is simply childhood, rediscovered by an act of will.
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There are but three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the warrior and the poet. To know, to kill and to create. The rest of mankind may be taxed and drudged, they are born for the stable, that is to say, to practise what they call professions.
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Evil is done without effort, naturally, it's destiny good is always the product of skill.
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Progress, this great heresy of decay.
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The man who says his evening prayer is a captain posting his sentinels. He can sleep.
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Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently.
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Here comes the time when, vibrating on its stem, every flower fumes like a censer noises and perfumes circle in the evening air.
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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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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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In the domain of painting and statuary, the present-day credo of the worldly wise, especially in France, is this: ... I believe that art is, and can only be, the exact reproduction of nature... An avenging God has heard the prayers of this multitude Daguerre was his messiah.
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And, drunk with my own madness, I shouted at him furiously, Make life beautiful! Make life beautiful!
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