“the Devil's hand directs our every move the things we loathed become the things we love; day by day we drop through stinking shades quite undeterred on our descent to Hell.” — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share Image
the Devil's hand directs our every move - / the things we loathed become the things we love — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share Image
Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature? — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
“The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist”—Charles Baudelaire “The second greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was… — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
“This life is a hospital in which each patient is possessed by the desire to change beds. One wants to suffer in front of… — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start. — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
Our religion is itself profoundly sad - a religion of universal anguish, and one which, because of its very catholicity, grants full liberty to… — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
But the true voyagers are only those who leave Just to be leaving; hearts light, like balloons, They never turn aside from their fatality… — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
Amer savoir, celui qu'on tire du voyage! Bitter is the knowledge gained in travelling. — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
“I can barely conceive a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy.” — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
The vices of man, as full of horror as one might suppose them to be, contain the proof (if in nothing else but their… — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
Multitude, solitude: equal and interchangeable terms for the active and prolific poet. — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
Any healthy man can go without food for two days - but not without poetry. — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
Man loves man so much that when he flees the city, it is still to seek the crowd, that is, to rebuild the city… — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
“—But why is she weeping? She, the perfect beauty, Who could put at her feet the conquered human race, What secret malady gnaws at… — Charles Baudelaire Copy Share
