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There are as many kinds of beauty as there are habitual ways of seeking happiness.

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
Seeking
Kinds
Ways
Beauty
Happiness
Many
Kind
Way
Habitual

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Doubt, or the absence of faith and naivete, is a vice peculiar to this age, for no one is obedient nowadays and naivete, which means the dominance of temperament in the manner, is a gift from God, possessed by very few.
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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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Even when she walks one would believe that she dances.
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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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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.
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Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally goodness is always the product of some art.
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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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the Devil's hand directs our every move - / the things we loathed become the things we love
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Even as a child I felt in my heart two opposite emotions: the horror of life and the ecstasy of life.
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To be just, that is to say, to justify its existence, criticism should be partial, passionate and political, that is to say, written from an exclusive point of view, but a point of view that opens up the widest horizons.
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Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
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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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Music fathoms the sky.
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Progress, this great heresy of decay.
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Love is a taste for prostitution. In fact, there is no noble pleasure that cannot be reduced to Prostitution.
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The vices of man, as full of horror as one might suppose them to be, contain the proof (if in nothing else but their infinitely expandable nature) of his taste for the infinite only, it is a taste that often takes a wrong turn.
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Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?
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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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The more a man cultivates the arts the less he fornicates. A more and more apparent cleavage occurs between the spirit and the brute.
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What could be more simple and more complex, more obvious and more profound than a portrait.
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