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The vices of man, as full of horror as one might suppose them to be, contain the proof (if in nothing else but their infinitely expandable nature) of his taste for the infinite only, it is a taste that often takes a wrong turn.
Charles Baudelaire
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Charles Baudelaire
Age: 46 †
Born: 1821
Born: April 9
Died: 1867
Died: August 30
Art Critic
Author
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Literary Critic
Poet
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Paris
France
Baudelaire
Charles Pierre Baudelaire-Dufaÿs
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Might
Turn
Infinitely
Nothing
Takes
Infinity
Men
Full
Vices
Wrong
Suppose
Turns
Proof
Often
Horror
Else
Infinite
Nature
Taste
Contain
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There is no more steely barb than that of the Infinite.
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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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Where ever I am not is the place where I am myself.
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For me, Romanticism is the most recent and the most current expression of beauty.
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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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Even when she walks one would believe that she dances.
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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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Through the Unknown, we'll find the New
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To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
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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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The immense profundity of thought in vulgar locutions, like holes dug by generations of ants.
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Like those great sphinxes lounging through eternity in noble attitudes upon the desert sand, they gaze incuriously at nothing, calm and wise.
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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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There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start.
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Pure draughtsmen are philosophers and dialecticians. Colourists are epic poets.
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The cannon thunders... limbs fly in all directions... one can hear the groans of victims and the howling of those performing the sacrifice... it's Humanity in search of happiness.
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Amer savoir, celui qu'on tire du voyage! Bitter is the knowledge gained in travelling.
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