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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
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Writer
Paris
France
Baudelaire
Charles Pierre Baudelaire-Dufaÿs
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Wind
Felt
Today
Insanity
Breath
Breaths
Madness
Wings
Pass
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
I have to confess that I had gambled on my soul and lost it with heroic insouciance and lightness of touch. The soul is so impalpable, so often useless, and sometimes such a nuisance, that I felt no more emotion on losing it than if, on a stroll, I had mislaid my visiting card.
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Ah! Seigneur! donnez-moi la force et le courage De contempler mon coeur et mon corps sans de go u t. Lord! give me the strength and the courage To see my heart and my body without disgust.
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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.
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Being a useful man has always seemed to me to be something truly hideous.
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What I say is that the supreme and singular joy of making love resides in the certainty of doing evil.
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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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The act of love strongly resembles torture or surgery.
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Remembering is only a new form of suffering.
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Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally goodness is always the product of some art.
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There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start.
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The immense profundity of thought in vulgar locutions, like holes dug by generations of ants.
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Oh, Creator! Can monsters exist in the sight of him who alone knows how they were invented, how they invented themselves, and how they might not have invented themselves?
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Let us beware of common folk, of common sense, of sentiment, of inspiration, and of the obvious.
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Through the Unknown, we'll find the New
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In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.
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An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.
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Where ever I am not is the place where I am myself.
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Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam, Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.
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Comme l'imagination a cre e le monde, elle le gouverne. Because imagination created the world, it governs it.
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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.
Charles Baudelaire
