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Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently.
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
Gently
Passion
Wrong
Hate
Spirit
Doe
Love
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
Wine transforms moles into eagles.
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To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
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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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As a remedy against all ills - poverty, sickness, and melancholy - only one thing is absolutely necessary: a liking for work
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On the day when a young writer corrects his first proof-sheet he is as proud as a schoolboy who has just got his first dose of pox.
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My soul travels on the smell of perfume like the souls of other men on music.
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However incoherent a human existence may be, human unity is not bothered by it.
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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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You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.
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Like those great sphinxes lounging through eternity in noble attitudes upon the desert sand, they gaze incuriously at nothing, calm and wise.
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What I say is that the supreme and singular joy of making love resides in the certainty of doing evil.
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Let us beware of common folk, of common sense, of sentiment, of inspiration, and of the obvious.
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Art is an infinitely precious good, a draught both refreshing and cheering which restores the stomach and the mind to the natural equilibrium of the ideal.
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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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Love is the natural occupation of the man of leisure.
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It is one of the prodigious privileges of art that the horrific, artistically expressed, becomes beauty, and that sorrow, given rhythm and cadence, fills the spirit with a calm joy.
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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?
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Music fathoms the sky.
Charles Baudelaire
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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I will drop into your chest like a vegetal ambrosia. I will be the grain that regenerates the cruelly plowed furrow. Poetry will be born of our intimate union. A god we shall create together, and we shall soar heavenward like sunbeams, perfumes, butterflies, birds, and all winged things.
Charles Baudelaire
