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The devil's finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist.

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
Devil
Exist
Doe
Life
Persuade
Trick
Finest
Tricks

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Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness.
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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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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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To handle a language skillfully is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
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I am the vampire at my own veins.
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Woman is natural, that is to say, abominable.
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Delacroix was passionately in love with passion, but coldly determined to express passion as clearly as possible.
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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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Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
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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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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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The form of a town changes more swiftly alas! Than the heart of a mortal.
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The more delicate and ambitious the soul, the further do dreams estrange it from possible things.
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Photographers, you will never become artists. All you are is mere copiers.
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You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.
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Evil comes up softly like a flower.
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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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Life is a hospital in which every patient is possessed by a desire to change his bed.
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Doubt, or the absence of faith and naivete, is a vice peculiar to this age, for no one is obedient nowadays and naivete, which means the dominance of temperament in the manner, is a gift from God, possessed by very few.
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This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to change beds one man would like to suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover his health beside the window.
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