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Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.

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
Like
Upon
Hate
Instinctive
Another
Ambitious
Place
Hatred
Two
Road
Give
Meet
Giving
Poetry
Men
Progress

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The immense profundity of thought in vulgar locutions, like holes dug by generations of ants.
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I am bored in France because everyone resembles Voltaire.
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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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Every healthy man can do without food for two days — but without poetry, never!
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Anybody, providing he knows how to be amusing, has the right to talk about himself.
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A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.
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Beauty is the sole ambition, the exclusive goal of Taste.
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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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There is no sweeter pleasure than to surprise a man by giving him more than he hopes for.
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To say the word Romanticism is to say modern art - that is, intimacy, spirituality, color, aspiration towards the infinite, expressed by every means available to the arts.
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When it meows, one scarcely hears it... It has not the need of words to speak the lengthiest phraseologies.
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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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Progress, this great heresy of decay.
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On the vaporization and the centralization of the Self. All is there.
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In literature as in ethics, there is danger, as well as glory, in being subtle. Aristocracy isolates us.
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Ah! Seigneur! donnez-moi la force et le courage De contempler mon coeur et mon corps sans de go u t. Lord! give me the strength and the courage To see my heart and my body without disgust.
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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.
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