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
beauty doe different
All forms of beauty, like all possible phenomena, contain an element of the eternal and an element of the transitory - of the absolute and of the particular. Absolute and eternal beauty does not exist, or rather it is only an abstraction creamed from the general surface of different beauties. The particular element in each manifestation comes from the emotions: and just as we have our own particular emotions, so we have our own beauty.
practice sorcery kind
To handle a language skillfully is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
inspiring art dual-nature
An artist is only an artist on condition that he neglects no aspect of his dual nature. This dualism is the power of being oneself and someone else at one and the same time.
childhood inspire genius
Genius is nothing more nor less than childhood recaptured at will.
happiness beauty way
There are as many kinds of beauty as there are habitual ways of seeking happiness.
delight matter infinity
What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?
ephemeral eternal
Extract the eternal from the ephemeral.
suffering remember form
Remembering is only a new form of suffering.
warrior may three
There are but three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the warrior and the poet. To know, to kill and to create. The rest of mankind may be taxed and drudged, they are born for the stable, that is to say, to practise what they call professions.
sky fathom
Music fathoms the sky.
dance dancing ballet
Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.
rivers yellow blue
I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.
prayer sleep men
The man who says his evening prayer is a captain posting his sentinels. He can sleep.
heart agony forests
Forest, I fear you! In my ruined heart your roaring wakens the same agony as in cathedrals when the organ moans and from the depths I hear that I am damned.