Zitate von Charles Baudelaire

Informationen über Charles Baudelaire

Lyriker, gilt als einer der wichtigsten Wegbereiter der europäischen literarischen Moderne, "Die Blumen des Bösen", "Die künstlichen Paradiese" (Frankreich, 1821 - 1867).

Charles Baudelaire · Geburtsdatum · Sterbedatum

Charles Baudelaire wäre heute 202 Jahre, 5 Monate, 17 Tage oder 73.949 Tage alt.

Geboren am 09.04.1821 in Paris
Gestorben am 31.08.1867 in Paris
Sternzeichen: ♈ Widder

• Belief in progress is a doctrine of idlers and Belgians. It is the individual relying upon his neighbours to do his work.

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• By putting off what you have to do you run the risk of never being able to do it.

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• Everything there is simply order and beauty, luxury, peace and sensual indulgence.

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• Genius is childhood recalled at will.

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• Hypocrite reader-my likeness-my brother.

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• I have more memories than if I were a thousand years old.

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• It is necessary to work, if not from inclination, at least from despair. Everything considered, work is less boring than amusing oneself.

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• Nature is a temple, where, from living pillars, confused words are sometimes allowed to escape; here man passes, through forests of symbols, which watch him with looks of recognition.

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• One must astonish the bourgeois.

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• One must shock the bourgeois.

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• Perfumes, colors, and sounds echo one another.

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• Sexuality is the lyricism of the masses.

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• The poet is like the prince of the clouds, who rides out the tempest and laughs at the archer. But when he is exiled on the ground, amidst the clamour, his giant's wings prevent him from walking.

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• There is a certain cowardice, a certain weakness, rather, among respectable folk. Only brigands are convinced - of what? That they must succeed. And so they do succeed.

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• There is in all change something at once sordid and agreeable, which smacks of infidelity and household removals. This is sufficient to explain the French Revolution.

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• Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.

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• We want, this fire so burns our brain tissue, to drown in the abyss-heaven or hell, who cares? Through the unknown, we'll find the new.

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• What do I care if you are good? / Be beautiful! and be sad!

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• What sad, black isle is that? It's Cythera, so they say, a land celebrated in song, the banal Eldorado of all the old fools. Look, after all, it's a land of poverty.

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• [. . .] l'Angoisse, atroce, despotique, sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.

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