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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.

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
Wings
Wing
Pass
Continually
Wind
Warning
Suffering
Received
Vertigo
War
Madness
Hysteria
Felt
Suffer
Cultivated
Today
Terror
Singular
Delight
January

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One must work, if not from inclination, at least out of despair — since it proves, on close examination, that work is less boring than amusing oneself.
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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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By nature, by necessity itself, [primitive man] is encyclopedic, while civilized man finds himself confined in the infinitely small regions of specialization.
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I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.
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The man who says his evening prayer is a captain posting his sentinels. He can sleep.
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Je sais la douleur est la noblesse unique O u' ne mordront jamais la terre et les enfers. I know that pain is the one nobility upon which Hell itself cannot encroach.
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It is one of the prodigious privileges of art that the horrific, artistically expressed, becomes beauty, and that sorrow, given rhythm and cadence, fills the spirit with a calm joy.
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Photographers, you will never become artists. All you are is mere copiers.
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Life swarms with innocent monsters.
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Even when she walks one would believe that she dances.
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With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.
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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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Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently.
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An artist is only an artist on condition that he neglects no aspect of his dual nature. This dualism is the power of being oneself and someone else at one and the same time.
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