Charles Baudelaire
Charles Baudelaire
Charles Pierre Baudelaire; April 9, 1821 – August 31, 1867) was a French poet who also produced notable work as an essayist, art critic, and pioneering translator of Edgar Allan Poe...
NationalityFrench
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth9 April 1821
CityParis, France
CountryFrance
perfect would-be satanic
It would be difficult for me not to conclude that the most perfect type of masculine beauty is Satan, as portrayed by Milton.
funny cute marriage
A sweetheart is a bottle of wine, a wife is a wine bottle.
time mean night
We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose.
life men history
Any man who does not accept the conditions of life sells his soul.
brother reading book
Hypocrite reader my fellow my brother!
honesty business financial
For the merchant, even honesty is a financial speculation.
dream baby doe
There is no dream of love, however ideal it may be, which does not end up with a fat, greedy baby hanging from the breast.
two quality literature
Two fundamental literary qualities: supernaturalism and irony.
evil literature born
We are all born marked for evil.
art fleeting half
Modernity is the transient, the fleeting, the contingent; it is one half of art, the other being the eternal and the immovable.
pain men long
Our religion is itself profoundly sad - a religion of universal anguish, and one which, because of its very catholicity, grants full liberty to the individual and asks no better than to be celebrated in each man's own language - so long as he knows anguish and is a painter.
summer sweet air
My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path a foul carcass On a gravel strewn bed, Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases.
walks corpses
You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.
morning drinking flower
Ascend beyond the sickly atmosphere to a higher plane, and purify yourself by drinking as if it were ambrosia the fire that fills and fuels Emptiness. Free from the futile strivings and the cares which dim existence to a realm of mist, happy is he who wings an upward way on mighty pinions to the fields of light; whose thoughts like larks spontaneously rise into the morning sky; whose flight, unchecked, outreaches life and readily comprehends the language of flowers and of all mute things.