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The life of our city is rich in poetic and marvelous subjects. We are enveloped and steeped as though in an atmosphere of the marvelous but we do not notice it.
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
Though
Marvelous
Life
Poetic
Notice
Atmosphere
Subjects
City
Cities
Enveloped
Rich
Steeped
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
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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You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.
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So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, be endlessly drunk.
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The cannon thunders... limbs fly in all directions... one can hear the groans of victims and the howling of those performing the sacrifice... it's Humanity in search of happiness.
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One can only forget about time by making use of it.
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The devil's finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist.
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This industry [photography], by invading the territories of art, has become art's most mortal enemy.
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It would be difficult for me not to conclude that the most perfect type of masculine beauty is Satan, as portrayed by Milton.
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What could be more simple and more complex, more obvious and more profound than a portrait.
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A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.
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Everything that is beautiful and noble is the product of reason and calculation.
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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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All the visible universe is nothing but a shop of images and signs.
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I have to confess that I had gambled on my soul and lost it with heroic insouciance and lightness of touch. The soul is so impalpable, so often useless, and sometimes such a nuisance, that I felt no more emotion on losing it than if, on a stroll, I had mislaid my visiting card.
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Love is the natural occupation of the man of leisure.
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Life is a hospital in which every patient is possessed by a desire to change his bed.
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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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Remembering is only a new form of suffering.
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Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness.
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I felt passing over me the wind of the wing of madness.
Charles Baudelaire
