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How bittersweet it is, on winter's night, To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire, As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light, Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
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
Fire
Choir
Night
December
Sputtering
Light
Distant
Dimmed
Smoking
Chime
Rise
Muffled
Winter
Chimes
Listen
Bittersweet
Memories
Fog
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There are some temptations which are so strong that they must be virtues.
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On the day when a young writer corrects his first proof-sheet he is as proud as a schoolboy who has just got his first dose of pox.
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By nature, by necessity itself, [primitive man] is encyclopedic, while civilized man finds himself confined in the infinitely small regions of specialization.
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Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, and all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
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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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Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam, Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.
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It is one of the prodigious privileges of art that the horrific, artistically expressed, becomes beauty, and that sorrow, given rhythm and cadence, fills the spirit with a calm joy.
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I love Wagner, but the music I prefer is that of a cat hung up by its tail outside a window and trying to stick to the panes of glass with its claws.
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The People adore authority.
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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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There are in every man, always, two simultaneous allegiances, one to God, the other to Satan. Invocation of God, or Spirituality, is a desire to climb higher that of Satan, or animality, is delight in descent.
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The more delicate and ambitious the soul, the further do dreams estrange it from possible things.
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Love is the natural occupation of the man of leisure.
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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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It is good sometimes that the happy of this world should learn, were it only to humble their foolish pride for an instant, that there are higher, wider, and rarer joys than theirs.
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Inspiration comes of working every day.
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Anybody, providing he knows how to be amusing, has the right to talk about himself.
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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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