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Our squalid society rushed, Narcissus to a man, to gaze on its trivial image on a scrap of metal.
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
Metals
Image
Squalid
Society
Narcissus
Men
Rushed
Scrap
Trivial
Gaze
Metal
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
What do I care if you are good? Be beautiful! and be sad!
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When a singer puts his hand on his heart, it means usually, I will always love you!
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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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A child sees everything in a sense of newness - he is always drunk. Genius is nothing but childhood re-attained at will.
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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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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.
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Anybody, providing he knows how to be amusing, has the right to talk about himself.
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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 more steely barb than that of the Infinite.
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Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.
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Oh, Creator! Can monsters exist in the sight of him who alone knows how they were invented, how they invented themselves, and how they might not have invented themselves?
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The more a man cultivates the arts the less he fornicates. A more and more apparent cleavage occurs between the spirit and the brute.
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Dancing can reveal all the mystery that music conceals.
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Romanticism is precisely situated neither in choice of subject, nor exact truth, but in the way of feeling.
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If wine were to disappear from human production, I believe it would cause an absence, a failure in health and intellect, a void much more terrifying than all the recesses and the deviations for which wine is regarded as responsible.
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We are all born marked for evil.
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Photographers, you will never become artists. All you are is mere copiers.
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In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.
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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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In literature as in ethics, there is danger, as well as glory, in being subtle. Aristocracy isolates us.
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