In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love. – Charles Baudelaire
I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy. – 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
Modernity is the transitory, the fugitive, the contingent, which make up one half of art, the other being the eternal and the immutable. This transitory fugitive element, which is constantly changing, must not be despised or neglected. – Charles Baudelaire