Charles Baudelaire
Strangeness is the indispensable condiment of all beauty. — Charles Baudelaire
Category: Decadent Movement
Charles Baudelaire
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 seeThe springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass;And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass,I… Continue reading Charles Baudelaire
Charles Baudelaire
I am an old boudoir full of withered roses. — Charles Baudelaire, from “Spleen,” Fleurs de Mal/The Flowers of Evil. Translated by William Aggeler. (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
Charles Baudelaire
When the sky appears in painand sunset no more than a wound,what are the thoughts that occurto a libertine soul like yours? — Charles Baudelaire, from “Horreur Sympathique (Sympathetic Horror),” Les Fleurs Du Mal. Translated by Richard Howard. (David R. Godine October 1st 1983) Originally published 1857.
Charles Baudelaire
What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all its poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes. ― Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen. (New Directions; F First Edition… Continue reading Charles Baudelaire
Charles Baudelaire
How sweet all things would seemWere we in that kind land to live together,And there love slow and long,There love and die amongThose scenes that image you, that sumptuous weather.Drowned suns that glimmer thereThrough cloud-disheveled airMove me with such a mystery as appearsWithin those other skiesOf your treacherous eyesWhen I behold them shining through their… Continue reading Charles Baudelaire
Charles Baudelaire
Sed Non Satiata Strange deity, brown as nights,Whose perfume is mixed with musk and Havanah,Magical creation, Faust of the savanna,Sorceress with the ebony thighs, child of black midnights, I prefer to African wines, to opium, to burgundy,The elixir of your mouth where love parades itself;When my desires leave in caravan for you,Your eyes are the… Continue reading Charles Baudelaire
Arthur Rimbaud
Evening prayer I spend my life sitting, like an angel in a barber’s chair,Holding a beer mug with deep-cut designs,My neck and gut both bent, while in the airA weightless veil of pipe smoke hangs. Like steaming dung within an old dovecoteA thousand Dreams within me softly burn:From time to time my heart is like… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud
Charles Baudelaire
I prefer to African wines, to opium, to burgundy,The elixir of your mouth where love parades itself;When my desires leave in caravan for you,Your eyes are the reservoir where my cares drink. — Charles Baudelaire, from “Sed Non Satiata,” Fleurs du mal / Flowers of Evil. Translated by Geoffrey Wagner. (David R. Godine; First edition,… Continue reading Charles Baudelaire
Arthur Rimbaud
The first study for the man who wants to be a poet is knowledge of himself, complete: he searches for his soul, he inspects it, he puts it to the test, he learns it. As soon as he has learned it, he must cultivate it! I say that one must be a seer, make oneself… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud
The Vale of Soul-Making 