Nature… is nothing but the inner voice of self-interest. – Charles Baudelaire
The poet is like the prince of clouds
Who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer;
Exiled on the ground in the midst of jeers,
His giant wings prevent him from walking. – Charles Baudelaire
This life is a hospital in which every patient is possessed with a desire to change his bed. – Charles Baudelaire
Both ardent lovers and austere scholars, when once they come to the years of discretion, love cats, so strong and gentle, the pride of the household, who like them are sensitive to the cold, and sedentary. – Charles Baudelaire