Quote

Here comes the time when, vibrating on its stem, every flower fumes like a censer noises and perfumes circle in the evening air.

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
Every
Circles
Fumes
Time
Evening
Perfumes
Like
Noise
Vibrating
Smell
Noises
Air
Perfume
Flower
Stem
Comes
Scent
Nature
Circle

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It is time to get drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk get drunk without stopping! On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish.
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From that moment onwards, our loathsome society rushed, like Narcissus, to contemplate its trivial image on a metallic plate. A form of lunacy, an extraordinary fanaticism took hold of these new sun-worshippers.
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This industry [photography], by invading the territories of art, has become art's most mortal enemy.
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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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the Devil's hand directs our every move - / the things we loathed become the things we love
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Nothing can be done except little by little.
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The life of our city is rich in poetic and marvelous subjects. We are enveloped and steeped as though in an atmosphere of the marvelous but we do not notice it.
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Even if it were proven that God didn't exist, Religion would still be Saintly and Divine.
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Inspiration comes of working every day.
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Remembering is only a new form of suffering.
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...an industry which can furnish results identical to nature must be the absolute in art.
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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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You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.
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Dancing can reveal all the mystery that music conceals.
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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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It is from the womb of art that criticism was born.
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A work of art should be like a well-planned crime.
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I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.
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Wine transforms moles into eagles.
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Evil is done without effort, naturally, it's destiny good is always the product of skill.
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