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What I say is that the supreme and singular joy of making love resides in the certainty of doing evil.
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
Joy
Evil
Making
Love
Resides
Singular
Sensual
Certainty
Supreme
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Any man who does not accept the conditions of life sells his soul.
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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?
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The form of a town changes more swiftly alas! Than the heart of a mortal.
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Nature is a temple, where the living Columns sometimes breathe confusing speech Man walks within these groves of symbols, each Of which regards him as a kindred thing.
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Genius is simply childhood, rediscovered by an act of will.
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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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Unable to do away with love, the Church found a way to decontaminate it by creating marriage.
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Everything that is beautiful and noble is the product of reason and calculation.
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Hashish will be, indeed, for the impressions and familiar thoughts of the man, a mirror which magnifies, yet no more than a mirror.
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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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It would be difficult for me not to conclude that the most perfect type of masculine beauty is Satan, as portrayed by Milton.
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Our squalid society rushed, Narcissus to a man, to gaze on its trivial image on a scrap of metal.
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Wine transforms moles into eagles.
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To glorify the cult of images (my great, my only, my earliest passion).
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On the vaporization and the centralization of the Self. All is there.
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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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There is a word, in a verb, something sacred which forbids us from using it recklessly. To handle a language cunningly is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
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Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally goodness is always the product of some art.
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Evil comes up softly like a flower.
Charles Baudelaire
