That which is not slightly distorted lacks sensible appeal; from which it follows that irregularity β that is to say, the unexpected, surprise and astonishment, are a essential part and characteristic of beauty.
What I say is that the supreme and singular joy of making love resides in the certainty of doing evil.
Interpretation
What this quote means
This quote suggests that the thrill of making love is enhanced by the acknowledgment of its perceived moral implications.
Charles Baudelaireβs quote reveals a complex perspective on the act of making love, positing that the exhilaration derived from such intimacy is intensified by a shared understanding of the societal or moral boundaries it may transgress. This notion challenges the conventional views of love and desire, inviting reflection on the paradox of pleasure derived from actions often labeled as forbidden or sinful, thus intertwining joy with a sense of rebellion.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
This quote can be shared during a discussion about the complexities of romantic relationships.
More from Charles Baudelaire
All quotes βThe dance can reveal everything mysterious that is hidden in music, and it has the additional merit of being human and palpable. Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.
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.
There is no sweeter pleasure than to surprise a man by giving him more than he hopes for.
The priest is an immense being because he makes the crowd believe astonishing things.
I consider it useless and tedious to represent what exists, because nothing that exists satisfies me. Nature is ugly, and I prefer the monsters of my fancy to what is positively trivial.
Similar quotes
Love is acceptance. When you love someone . . . you take them into your heart, and that is surely why it hurts so much when we lose someone we love, because we lose a part of ourselves.
Love is the world's infinite mutability; lies, hatred, murder even, are all knit up in it; it is the inevitable blossoming of its opposites, a magnificent rose smelling faintly of blood.
How can so much beauty hide such a bruised and steely heart, and why must I love him, why must I lean in my weariness upon his irresistible yet indomitable strength? Is he not the wizend funeral spirit of a dead man in a child's clothes?
I wish to believe in immortality-I wish to live with you forever.
Passion such as hers is all consent, asking little in return. I had merely to enter a room where she was to see her face take on that peaceful expression of one who is resting in bed. If I touched her, I had the impression that all the blood in her veins was turning to honey.
Everything we do is either an act of love or a cry for help.