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The more delicate and ambitious the soul, the further do dreams estrange it from possible things.
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
Ambitious
Delicate
Dreams
Possible
Dream
Soul
Things
Estrange
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
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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Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently.
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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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There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start.
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To glorify the cult of images (my great, my only, my earliest passion).
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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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Hashish will be, indeed, for the impressions and familiar thoughts of the man, a mirror which magnifies, yet no more than a mirror.
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Wine transforms moles into eagles.
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You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.
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Through the Unknown, we'll find the New
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To say the word Romanticism is to say modern art - that is, intimacy, spirituality, color, aspiration towards the infinite, expressed by every means available to the arts.
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Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.
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I am the wound and the knife! I am the slap and the cheek! I am the limbs and the rack, And the victim and the executioner! I am the vampire of my own heart.
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There are as many kinds of beauty as there are habitual ways of seeking happiness.
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I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.
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When it meows, one scarcely hears it... It has not the need of words to speak the lengthiest phraseologies.
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On the vaporization and the centralization of the Self. All is there.
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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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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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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.
Charles Baudelaire