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And, drunk with my own madness, I shouted at him furiously, Make life beautiful! Make life beautiful!
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
Beautiful
Make
Life
Furiously
Shouted
Drunk
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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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Modernity is the transient, the fleeting, the contingent it is one half of art, the other being the eternal and the immovable.
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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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If a given combination of trees, mountains, water, and houses, say a landscape, is beautiful, it is not so by itself, but because of me, of my favor, of the idea or feeling I attach to it.
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Two fundamental literary qualities: supernaturalism and irony.
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Any man who does not accept the conditions of life sells his soul.
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Pure draughtsmen are philosophers and dialecticians. Colourists are epic poets.
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Photographers, you will never become artists. All you are is mere copiers.
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From that moment onwards, our loathsome society rushed, like Narcissus, to contemplate its trivial image on a metallic plate. A form of lunacy, an extraordinary fanaticism took hold of these new sun-worshippers.
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If the poet has pursued a moral objective, he has diminished his poetic force.
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In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.
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He who looks through an open window sees fewer things than he who looks through a closed window.
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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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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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I have cultivated my hysteria with delight and terror. Now I suffer continually from vertigo, and today, 23rd of January, 1862, I have received a singular warning, I have felt the wind of the wing of madness pass over me.
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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.
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The dandy should aspire to be uninterruptedly sublime. He should live and sleep in front of a mirror.
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Romanticism is precisely situated neither in choice of subject, nor exact truth, but in the way of feeling.
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Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
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Delacroix was passionately in love with passion, but coldly determined to express passion as clearly as possible.
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