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I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.
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
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Writer
Paris
France
Baudelaire
Charles Pierre Baudelaire-Dufaÿs
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Tears
Swans
Movement
Rigid
Lines
Misunderstood
Hate
Snow
Heart
Lips
Untaught
Like
Sky
Displaces
Laughter
Sphinx
Neither
Whiteness
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I am the vampire at my own veins.
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Progress, this great heresy of decay.
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Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally goodness is always the product of some art.
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An oasis of horror in a desert of boredom.
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There are but three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the warrior and the poet. To know, to kill and to create. The rest of mankind may be taxed and drudged, they are born for the stable, that is to say, to practise what they call professions.
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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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Always be drunk ... Get drunk militantly. Just get drunk.
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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 could be more simple and more complex, more obvious and more profound than a portrait.
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Man loves man so much that when he flees the city, it is still to seek the crowd, that is, to rebuild the city in the country.
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As the end of the century approaches, all our culture is like flies at the beginning of winter. Having lost their agility, dreamy and demented, they turn slowly about the window in the first icy mists of morning, . . . [then] they fall down the curtains.
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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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Genius is nothing more nor less than childhood recaptured at will.
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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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Everything for me becomes allegory
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