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Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, and all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
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
Soon
Stunning
Cold
Plunge
Already
Shadows
Dead
Autumn
Cobblestone
Hear
Afternoon
Logs
Gone
Falling
Afternoons
Fall
Shadow
Lawn
Summer
Lawns
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
The cannon thunders... limbs fly in all directions... one can hear the groans of victims and the howling of those performing the sacrifice... it's Humanity in search of happiness.
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Dancing can reveal all the mystery that music conceals.
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Nothing in a portrait is a matter of indifference. Gesture, grimace, clothing, decor even - all must combine to realize a character.
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Love is a taste for prostitution. In fact, there is no noble pleasure that cannot be reduced to Prostitution.
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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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Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.
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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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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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I am the vampire at my own veins.
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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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You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.
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Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.
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Nations, like families, have great men only in spite of themselves.
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Where are the dogs going? you people who pay so little attention ask. They are going about their business. And they are very punctilious, without wallets, notes, and without briefcases.
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Woman is natural, that is to say, abominable.
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Our religion is itself profoundly sad - a religion of universal anguish, and one which, because of its very catholicity, grants full liberty to the individual and asks no better than to be celebrated in each man's own language - so long as he knows anguish and is a painter.
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A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.
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There are some temptations which are so strong that they must be virtues.
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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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