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Paris Spleen Paris Spleen by Charles Baudelaire
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Paris Spleen Quotes Showing 1-30 of 49
“One should always be drunk. That's all that matters...But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“La plus belle des ruses du diable est de vous persuader qu'il n'existe pas."

("The devil's finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist.")”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“Be always drunken.
Nothing else matters:
that is the only question.
If you would not feel
the horrible burden of Time
weighing on your shoulders
and crushing you to the earth,
be drunken continually.

Drunken with what?
With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will.
But be drunken.

And if sometimes,
on the stairs of a palace,
or on the green side of a ditch,
or in the dreary solitude of your own room,
you should awaken
and the drunkenness be half or wholly slipped away from you,
ask of the wind,
or of the wave,
or of the star,
or of the bird,
or of the clock,
of whatever flies,
or sighs,
or rocks,
or sings,
or speaks,
ask what hour it is;
and the wind,
wave,
star,
bird,
clock will answer you:
"It is the hour to be drunken!”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“I am a cemetery by the moon unblessed.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“Nothing is as tedious as the limping days,
When snowdrifts yearly cover all the ways,
And ennui, sour fruit of incurious gloom,
Assumes control of fate’s immortal loom”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“This life is a hospital in which each patient is possessed by the desire to change beds. One wants to suffer in front of the stove and another believes that he will get well near the window.

It always seems to me that I will be better off there where I am not, and this question of moving about is one that I discuss endlessly with my soul

"Tell me, my soul, my poor chilled soul, what would you think about going to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and you'll be able to soak up the sun like a lizard there. That city is on the shore; they say that it is built all out of marble, and that the people there have such a hatred of the vegetable, that they tear down all the trees. There's a country after your own heart -- a landscape made out of light and mineral, and liquid to reflect them!"

My soul does not reply.

"Because you love rest so much, combined with the spectacle of movement, do you want to come and live in Holland, that beatifying land? Perhaps you will be entertained in that country whose image you have so often admired in museums. What do you think of Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts and ships anchored at the foot of houses?"

My soul remains mute.

"Does Batavia please you more, perhaps? There we would find, after all, the European spirit married to tropical beauty."

Not a word. -- Is my soul dead?

Have you then reached such a degree of torpor that you are only happy with your illness? If that's the case, let us flee toward lands that are the analogies of Death. -- I've got it, poor soul! We'll pack our bags for Torneo. Let's go even further, to the far end of the Baltic. Even further from life if that is possible: let's go live at the pole. There the sun only grazes the earth obliquely, and the slow alternation of light and darkness suppresses variety and augments monotony, that half of nothingness. There we could take long baths in the shadows, while, to entertain us, the aurora borealis send us from time to time its pink sheaf of sparkling light, like the reflection of fireworks in Hell!"

Finally, my soul explodes, and wisely she shrieks at me: "It doesn't matter where! It doesn't matter where! As long as it's out of this world!”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“The man who is unable to people his solitude is equally unable to be alone in a bustling crowd. The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself or some one else, as he chooses. [...] The solitary and thoughtful stroller finds a singular intoxication in this universal communion. [...] 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...to the unexpected as it comes along, the stranger as he passes.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“A friend of mine, the most innocuous dreamer who ever lived, once set a forest on fire to see, as he said, if it would catch as easily as people said. The first ten times the experiment was a failure; but on the eleventh it succeeded all too well.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“The devil's finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“Bisogna sempre essere ubriachi. Tutto qui: è l'unico problema. Per non sentire l'orribile fardello del Tempo che vi spezza la schiena e vi tiene a terra, dovete ubriacarvi senza tregua. Ma di che cosa? Di vino, poesia o di virtù : come vi pare. Ma ubriacatevi. E se talvolta, sui gradini di un palazzo, sull’erba verde di un fosso, nella tetra solitudine della vostra stanza, vi risvegliate perché l’ebbrezza è diminuita o scomparsa, chiedete al vento, alle stelle, agli uccelli, all'orologio, a tutto ciò che fugge, a tutto ciò che geme, a tutto ciò che scorre, a tutto ciò che canta, a tutto ciò che parla, chiedete che ora è; e il vento, le onde, le stelle, gli uccelli, l'orologio, vi risponderanno: "È ora di ubriacarsi! Per non essere gli schiavi martirizzati del Tempo, ubriacatevi, ubriacatevi sempre! Di vino, di poesia o di virtù, come vi pare.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“L'étude du beau est un duel où l'artiste crie de frayeur avant d'être vaincu.”
Charles Baudelaire, Petits Poemes En Prose
“Dans ce trou noir ou lumineux vit la vie, rêve la vie, souffre la vie.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“ENIVREZ-VOUS

Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.

Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!

Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.

(in Le Spleen de Paris)”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“Mais qu'importe l'éternité de la damnation à qui a trouvé dans une seconde l'infini de la jouissance!”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“İşte onlar gibi biri, Venüs heykelinin altlığına büzülmüş, ölümsüz tanrıçaya bakıp gözyaşları döküyor... Gel gör ki insafsız Venüs, uzaklara bilmediğim bir şeylere bakıyor mermer gözleriyle.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“In this respect you, unworthy companion of my sad life, resemble the public, to whom one must never present the delicate scents that only exasperate them, but instead give them only dung, chosen with care.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“Oh, sim! O Tempo está de volta; O Tempo reina como um rei agora; e junto dele aquele velho homem com seu arsenal demoníaco de Memórias, Arrependimentos, Espasmos, Medos, Ansiedades, Pesadelos, Raivas, e Neuroses.
Eu lhe asseguro que os segundos são mais fortes agora, solenemente acentuados, e cada um, saltando do relógio, diz assim, Eu sou a Vida, intolerável, implacável!”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“A vida é um hospital cujos pacientes são obcecados pela troca das camas. Este quer sofrer frente a fornalha, aquele outro pensa que melhorará caso se mantenha perto da janela.

Sempre me pareceu que eu estaria melhor em qualquer outro lugar exceto o lugar em que estou agora, e esta questão de seguir adiante é uma questão que muito discuto com minha alma.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“Almost all our evils arise from being unable to stay in our rooms,” said another sage, Pascal.

(“Yanılmıyorsam Pascal, ‘neredeyse tüm mutsuzluklarımız odamızda kalmayı bilememiş olmamızdan geliyor başımıza’ der”)”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“—Lindo perro mío, buen perro, chucho querido, acércate y ven a respirar un excelente perfume, comprado en la mejor perfumería de la ciudad.
Y el perro, meneando la cola, signo, según creo, que en esos mezquinos seres corresponde a la risa y a la sonrisa, se acerca y pone curioso la húmeda nariz en el frasco destapado; luego, echándose atrás con súbito temor, me ladra, como si me reconviniera.
—¡Ah miserable can! Si te hubiera ofrecido un montón de excrementos los hubieras husmeado con delicia, devorándolos tal vez. Así tú, indigno compañero de mi triste vida, te pareces al público, a quien nunca se ha de ofrecer perfumes delicados que le exasperen, sino basura cuidadosamente elegida.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“Déjame respirar mucho tiempo, mucho tiempo, el olor de tus cabellos; sumergir en ellos el rostro, como hombre sediento en agua de manantial, y agitarlos con mi mano, como pañuelo odorífero, para sacudir recuerdos al aire.
¡Si pudieras saber todo lo que veo! ¡Todo lo que siento! ¡Todo lo que oigo en tus cabellos! Mi alma viaja en el perfume como el alma de los demás hombres en la música.
Tus cabellos contienen todo un ensueño, lleno de velámenes y de mástiles; contienen vastos mares, cuyos monzones me llevan a climas de encanto, en que el espacio es más azul y más profundo, en que la atmósfera está perfumada por los frutos, por las hojas y por la piel humana.
En el océano de tu cabellera entreveo un puerto en que pululan cantares melancólicos, hombres vigorosos de toda nación y navíos de toda forma, que recortan sus arquitecturas finas y complicadas en un cielo inmenso en que se repantiga el eterno calor.
En las caricias de tu cabellera vuelvo a encontrar las languideces de las largas horas pasadas en un diván, en la cámara de un hermoso navío, mecidas por el balanceo imperceptible del puerto, entre macetas y jarros refrescantes.
En el ardiente hogar de tu cabellera respiro el olor del tabaco mezclado con opio y azúcar; en la noche de tu cabellera veo resplandecer lo infinito del azul tropical; en las orillas vellosas de tu cabellera me emborracho con los olores combinados del algodón, del almizcle y del aceite de coco.
Déjame morder mucho tiempo tus trenzas, pesadas y negras. Cuando mordisqueo tus cabellos elásticos y rebeldes, me parece que como recuerdos.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“No hay excusa para la maldad; pero el que es malo, si lo sabe, tiene algún mérito; el vicio más irreparable es el de hacer el mal por tontería.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“Es hermosa y más que hermosa: es sorprendente. Lo negro en ella abunda; y es nocturno y profundo cuanto inspira. Sus ojos son de astros en que centellea vagamente el misterio, y su mirada ilumina como el relámpago: es una explosión en las tinieblas.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“Hay que estar siempre ebrio. Nada más: ése es todo el asunto. Para no sentir el horrible peso del Tiempo que os fatiga la espalda y os inclina hacia la tierra, tenéis que embriagaros sin tregua. Pero, ¿de qué? De vino, de poesía o de virtud, como queráis. Pero embriagaos.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“Descontente com tudo, descontente comigo, eu gostaria de me redimir, sentir um pouco de orgulho no silêncio e na solidão da noite. Almas daqueles que amei, almas daqueles que cantei, deem-me forças, suportem-me, distanciem-me das mentiras e dos vapores infectos do mundo, e tu, meu senhor, Deus! Dá-me a graça para produzir alguns belos versos para que eu prove a mim mesmo que não estou entre a borra dos homens, que não sou inferior aqueles a quem desprezo.”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
“والآن يروّعني عمق السماء، وصفاؤها يكدرني. وجمود البحر وركود المشهد يثيران نفوري.. آه! ألابد من المكابدة أبدًا ، أو لا بد من الهرب الجميل أبدًا؟ أيتها الطبيعة، الفاتنة بلا رحمة، الخصم الظافر أبدًا ، دعيني وشأني! كفي عن إغواء رغباتي وكبريائي!
صلاة اعتراف الفنان”
شارل بودلير, Paris Spleen
“E, no caminho para casa, obcecado com esta visão, tentei analisar minha súbita tristeza, dizendo para mim: o que eu vi foi o próprio quadro do velho homem de letras que sobreviveu a geração que ele, outrora, brilhantemente entreteu; do velho poeta sem amigos, sem família, sem crianças, degradado pela sua pobreza e pela ingratidão do público, de pé na tenda que o ingrato mundo não mais deseja entrar!”
Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen

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