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Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam, Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.

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
Eye
Gleam
Mystic
Vague
Sand
Cat
Dusts
Dust
Iris
Gold
Irises
Eyes
Finer

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The habit of doing one's duty drives away fear.
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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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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.
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To handle a language skillfully is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
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Amer savoir, celui qu'on tire du voyage! Bitter is the knowledge gained in travelling.
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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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Alas, human vices, however horrible one might imagine them to be, contain the proof (were it only in their infinite expansion) of man's longing for the infinite but it is a longing that often takes the wrong route. It is my belief that the reason behind all culpable excesses lies in this depravation of the sense of the infinite.
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Love is the natural occupation of the man of leisure.
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Music fathoms the sky.
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It is good sometimes that the happy of this world should learn, were it only to humble their foolish pride for an instant, that there are higher, wider, and rarer joys than theirs.
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Inspiration comes of working every day.
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What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all its poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes.
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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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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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France at the dinner table in faraway places but here, among ourselves, in the family, let us face the facts: France is not poetic to tell the truth, she even feels a congenital horror of poetry. Among the writers who use verse, those whom she will always prefer are the most prosaic.
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The more delicate and ambitious the soul, the further do dreams estrange it from possible things.
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Every idea is endowed of itself with immortal life, like a human being. All created form, even that which is created by man, is immortal. For form is independent of matter: molecules do not constitute form.
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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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The dandy should aspire to be uninterruptedly sublime. He should live and sleep in front of a mirror.
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