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I am bored in France because everyone resembles Voltaire.

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
Bored
France
Everyone
Voltaire
Resembles
Conformity

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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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It would perhaps be nice to be alternately the victim and the executioner.
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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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Photographers, you will never become artists. All you are is mere copiers.
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Discover day to day excitement.
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What do I care if you are good? Be beautiful! and be sad!
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A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors.
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With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.
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Every idea is endowed of itself with immortal life, like a human being. All created form, even that which is created by man, is immortal. For form is independent of matter: molecules do not constitute form.
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Music fathoms the sky.
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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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It would be difficult for me not to conclude that the most perfect type of masculine beauty is Satan, as portrayed by Milton.
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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.
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I think I would be happy in that place I happen not to be, and this question of moving house is the subject of a perpetual dialogue I have with my soul.
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There is no sweeter pleasure than to surprise a man by giving him more than he hopes for.
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Nothing can be done except little by little.
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One should always be drunk. That's all that matters...But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk.
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Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently.
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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.
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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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