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What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?
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
Felt
Someone
Matter
Damnation
Infinity
Delight
Eternity
Second
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There exist only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create.
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It would perhaps be nice to be alternately the victim and the executioner.
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Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.
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I am the wound and the knife! I am the slap and the cheek! I am the limbs and the rack, And the victim and the executioner! I am the vampire of my own heart.
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Photographers, you will never become artists. All you are is mere copiers.
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Unable to suppress love, the Church wanted at least to disinfect it, and it created marriage.
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The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance We find delight in the most loathsome things Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings, And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.
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Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally goodness is always the product of some art.
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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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Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam, Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.
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Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.
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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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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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An artist is only an artist on condition that he neglects no aspect of his dual nature. This dualism is the power of being oneself and someone else at one and the same time.
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The beautiful is always bizarre.
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Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.
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Anybody, providing he knows how to be amusing, has the right to talk about himself.
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The act of love strongly resembles torture or surgery.
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Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
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