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I felt passing over me the wind of the wing of madness.
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
Madness
Passing
Wings
Wind
Felt
Wing
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
Nations, like families, have great men only in spite of themselves.
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To say the word Romanticism is to say modern art - that is, intimacy, spirituality, color, aspiration towards the infinite, expressed by every means available to the arts.
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My soul travels on the smell of perfume like the souls of other men on music.
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In art, there is one thing which does not receive sufficient attention. The element which is left to the human will is not nearly so large as people think.
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The beautiful is always bizarre.
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A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.
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The form of a town changes more swiftly alas! Than the heart of a mortal.
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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.
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Evil is done without effort, naturally, it's destiny good is always the product of skill.
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Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently.
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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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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 a singer puts his hand on his heart, it means usually, I will always love you!
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An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.
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But the true voyagers are only those who leave Just to be leaving hearts light, like balloons, They never turn aside from their fatality And without knowing why they always say: Let's go!
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Being a useful man has always seemed to me to be something truly hideous.
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If wine were to disappear from human production, I believe it would cause an absence, a failure in health and intellect, a void much more terrifying than all the recesses and the deviations for which wine is regarded as responsible.
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This industry [photography], by invading the territories of art, has become art's most mortal enemy.
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How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.
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Inspiration comes of working every day.
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