Charles Baudelaire Quotes - Page 9

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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.

Charles Baudelaire

Memories, Men, Suffering

Charles Baudelaire (1986). “La Fanfarlo”

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The artist is today and has been for many years, despite his absence of merit, simply a spoiled child. So many honors, so much money bestowed on men without souls and without education.

Charles Baudelaire

Education, Art, Children

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There is a word, in a verb, something sacred which forbids us from using it recklessly. To handle a language cunningly is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.

Charles Baudelaire

Practice, Sorcery, Verbs

"L'art romantique". Book by Charles Baudelaire, 1869.

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What is exhilarating in bad taste is the aristocratic pleasure of giving offense.

Charles Baudelaire

Giving, Literature, Taste

Charles Baudelaire, Christopher Isherwood, W. H. Auden (2006). “Intimate Journals”, p.49, Courier Corporation

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Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently.

Charles Baudelaire

Hate, Passion, Doe

Charles Baudelaire (1955). “The Flowers of Evil”, New Directions Publishing Corporation

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Theory of the true civilization. It is not to be found in gas or steam or table turning. It consists in the diminution of the traces of original sin.

Charles Baudelaire

Civilization, Tables, Sin

Journaux Intimes "Mon CoeurMis a Nu" no. 59 (1887)

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...and the lamp having at last resigned itself to death. There was nothing now but firelight in the room, And every time a flame uttered a gasp for breath It flushed her amber skin with the blood of its bloom.

Charles Baudelaire

Flames, Blood, Skins

Charles Baudelaire (1955). “Flowers of Evil: A Selection”, p.25, New Directions Publishing

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Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.

Charles Baudelaire

Art, Blessed, Suffering

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Every healthy man can do without food for two days — but without poetry, never!

Charles Baudelaire

Food, Men, Two

"Baudelaire as a literary critic".

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The idea of beauty which man creates for himself imprints itself on his whole attire, crumples or stiffens his dress, rounds off or squares his gesture, and in the long run even ends by subtly penetrating the very features of his face. Man ends by looking like his ideal self. These engravings can be translated either into beauty or ugliness; in one direction, they become caricatures, in the other, antique statues.

Charles Baudelaire

Running, Men, Squares

Charles Baudelaire (1986). “The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays”

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I am a cemetery by the moon unblessed.

Charles Baudelaire

Moon, Cemetery

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A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.

Charles Baudelaire

Party, Book, Garden

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The idea which man forms of beauty imprints itself throughout his attire, rumples or stiffens his garments, rounds off or aligns his gestures, and, finally, even subtly penetrates the features of his face.

Charles Baudelaire

Beauty, Fashion, Men

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There can be no progress-real, moral prgress-except in the individual and by the individual himself.

Charles Baudelaire

Art, Philosophy, Real

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My soul travels on the smell of perfume like the souls of other men on music.

Charles Baudelaire

Music, Travel, Men

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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.

Charles Baudelaire

Independent, Men, Ideas

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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

Summer, Fall, Autumn

Charles Baudelaire, “Chant D'Automne (Song Of Autumn)”

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From that moment onwards, our loathsome society rushed, like Narcissus, to contemplate its trivial image on a metallic plate. A form of lunacy, an extraordinary fanaticism took hold of these new sun-worshippers.

Charles Baudelaire

Sun, Moments, That Moment

Charles Baudelaire (1981). “Baudelaire: Selected Writings on Art and Artists”, p.295, CUP Archive

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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?

Charles Baudelaire

Sight, Monsters, Might

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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.

Charles Baudelaire

Memories, Winter, Night

Charles Baudelaire, Norman R. Shapiro (2000). “Selected Poems from Les Fleurs Du Mal: A Bilingual Edition”, p.135, University of Chicago Press

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Happy is the man who can with vigorous wing Mount to those luminous serene fields! The man whose thoughts, like larks, Take liberated flight toward the morning skies --Who hovers over life and understands without effort The language of flowers and voiceless things!

Charles Baudelaire

Morning, Flower, Men

Charles Baudelaire (2013). “Flowers of Evil and Other Works: A Dual-Language Book”, p.27, Courier Corporation

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All good and genuine draftsmen draw according to the picture inscribed in their minds, and not according to nature.

Charles Baudelaire

Drawing, Mind, Genuine

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Even if it were proven that God didn't exist, Religion would still be Saintly and Divine.

Charles Baudelaire

Divine, Stills, Ifs

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I am bored in France because everyone resembles Voltaire.

Charles Baudelaire

Bored, France, Conformity

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I love to watch the fine mist of the night come on, The windows and the stars illumined, one by one, The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily, And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass; And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass, I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight, And build me stately palaces by candlelight.

Charles Baudelaire

Summer, Stars, Spring

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Born: April 9, 1821
Died: August 31, 1867
Occupation: Poet
Cite this Page: Citation

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