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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
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
Art is an infinitely precious good, a draught both refreshing and cheering which restores the stomach and the mind to the natural equilibrium of the ideal.
Charles Baudelaire
Quand me me Dieu n'existerait pas, la religion serait encore sainte et divineDieu est le seul e tre qui, pour re gner, n'ait me me pas besoin d'exister. Even if God did not exist, religion would still be holyand divine.God isthe only being who, inorder toreign, need not even exist.
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The man who says his evening prayer is a captain posting his sentinels. He can sleep.
Charles Baudelaire
I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.
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In our corruption we perceive beauties unrevealed to ancient times.
Charles Baudelaire
Even if it were proven that God didn't exist, Religion would still be Saintly and Divine.
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Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
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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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There are as many kinds of beauty as there are habitual ways of seeking happiness.
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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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On the vaporization and the centralization of the Self. All is there.
Charles Baudelaire
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.
Charles Baudelaire
Everything for me becomes allegory
Charles Baudelaire
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.
Charles Baudelaire
What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?
Charles Baudelaire
Pure draughtsmen are philosophers and dialecticians. Colourists are epic poets.
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A work of art should be like a well-planned crime.
Charles Baudelaire
How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.
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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.
Charles Baudelaire
Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam, Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.
Charles Baudelaire
