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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.
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
Needs
Ego
Men
Solitude
Love
Flesh
Horror
Poetry
Lose
Grandly
Loses
Exterior
Need
Calls
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, be endlessly drunk.
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Even as a child I felt in my heart two opposite emotions: the horror of life and the ecstasy of life.
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Il faut travailler sinon par go u t, au moins par de sespoir, puisque, tout bien ve rifie , travailler est moins ennuyeux que s'amuser. We should work: if not by preference, at least out of despair. All things considered, work is less boring than amusement.
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I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.
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Pure draughtsmen are philosophers and dialecticians. Colourists are epic poets.
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With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.
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What do I care if you are good? Be beautiful! and be sad!
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Through the Unknown, we'll find the New
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The form of a town changes more swiftly alas! Than the heart of a mortal.
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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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Oh, Creator! Can monsters exist in the sight of him who alone knows how they were invented, how they invented themselves, and how they might not have invented themselves?
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Inspiration comes of working every day.
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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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What strange phenomena we find in a great city, all we need do is stroll about with our eyes open. Life swarms with innocent monsters.
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Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?
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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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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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There is a certain cowardice, a certain weakness, rather, among respectable folk. Only brigands are convinced-of what? That they must succeed. And so they do succeed.
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The dance can reveal everything mysterious that is hidden in music, and it has the additional merit of being human and palpable. Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.
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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?
Charles Baudelaire