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Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
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
Wind
Felt
Today
Insanity
Breath
Breaths
Madness
Wings
Pass
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Genius is simply childhood, rediscovered by an act of will.
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Those men get along best with women who can get along best without them.
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With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.
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Beauty is the sole ambition, the exclusive goal of Taste.
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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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The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance We find delight in the most loathsome things Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings, And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.
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What could be more simple and more complex, more obvious and more profound than a portrait.
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Like those great sphinxes lounging through eternity in noble attitudes upon the desert sand, they gaze incuriously at nothing, calm and wise.
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Nothing can be done except little by little.
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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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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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He who looks through an open window sees fewer things than he who looks through a closed window.
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Progress, this great heresy of decay.
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Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?
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The habit of doing one's duty drives away fear.
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What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all its poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes.
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Nations, like families, have great men only in spite of themselves. They do everything in their power not to have any. And therefore, the great man, in order to exist, must possess a force of attack which is greater than the force of resistance developed by millions of people.
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The more delicate and ambitious the soul, the further do dreams estrange it from possible things.
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You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.
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