Charles Baudelaire

[Mediator Kam]

Or at least 4w3 or something, my god he is magnificent.

Charles Baudelaire - Wikiquote.
Poetry.
Biography.

[Rubicon]

If rape and poison, dagger and burning,
Have still not embroidered their pleasant designs
On the banal canvas of our pitiable destinies,
It's because our souls, alas, are not bold enough!

yah - INFp

[Mediator Kam]

I need to get a jacket like his and plunge my hand into it at random times like I am pitiable and sad. It would rock.

[Rubicon]

I need to get a jacket like his and plunge my hand into it at random times like I am pitiable and sad. It would rock.

Here ya go.



I think there should be enough room between those buttons. If not, there's this one:



Don't let the stern look put you off!

[aka-kitsune]

I LOVE Baudelaire! Fleur de Mal!! Whoo!
What's with that hand thing though? Very Napoleonic.

[redbaron]

What's with that hand thing though? Very Napoleonic.

I was thinking that too!

[Creepy-male]

One of the authors we are studying in intro literature

Charles Baudelaire - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

I'd say a particularly melancholy/negative SEI or IEI, also definitally a 4w5, his incessant negativity and subversion from typically notions reminds me of strrrng slightly

[Creepy-male]

Foolishness, error, sin, niggardliness,
Occupy our minds and work on our bodies,
And we feed our mild remorse,
As beggars nourish their vermin.

Our sins are insistent, our repentings are limp;
We pay ourselves richly for our admissions,
And we gaily go once more on the filthy path
Believing that by cheap fears we shall wash away all our sins.

On the pillow of evil it is Satan Trismegistus
Who soothes a long while our bewitched mind,
And the rich metal of our determination
Is made vapor by that learned chemist.

It is the Devil who holds the reins which make us go!
In repulsive objects we find something charming;
Each day we take one more step towards Hell-
Without being horrified-across darknesses that stink .

Like a beggarly sensualist who kisses and eats
The martyred breast of an ancient strumpet,
We steal where we may a furtive pleasure
Which we handle forcefully like an old orange.

Tight, swarming, like a million worms,
A population of Demons carries on in our brains,
And, when we breathe, Death into our lungs
Goes down, an invisible river, with thick complaints.

If rape, poison, the dagger, arson,
Have not as yet embroidered with their pleasing designs
The recurrent canvas of our pitiable destinies,
It is that our spirit, alas, is not brave enough.

But among the jackals, the panthers, the bitch-hounds,
The apes, the scorpions, the vultures, the serpents,
The monsters screeching, howling, grumbling, creeping,
In the infamous menagerie of our vices,

There is one uglier, wickeder, more shameless!
Although he makes no large gestures nor loud cries
He willingly would make rubbish of the earth
And with a yawn swallow the world;

He is Ennui!-His eye filled with an unwished-for tear,
He dreams of scaffolds while puffing at his hookah.
You know him, reader, this exquisite monster,
-Hypocrite reader,-my likeness,-my brother!

My love, do you recall the object which we saw,
That fair, sweet, summer morn!
At a turn in the path a foul carcass
On a gravel strewn bed,


Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman,
Burning and dripping with poisons,
Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way
Its belly, swollen with gases.


The sun shone down upon that putrescence,
As if to roast it to a turn,
And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature
The elements she had combined;


And the sky was watching that superb cadaver
Blossom like a flower.
So frightful was the stench that you believed
You'd faint away upon the grass.


The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly,
From which came forth black battalions
Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid
All along those living tatters.


All this was descending and rising like a wave,
Or poured out with a crackling sound;
One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath,
Lived by multiplication.


And this world gave forth singular music,
Like running water or the wind,
Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion
Shake in their winnowing baskets.


The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream,
A sketch that slowly falls
Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist
Completes from memory alone.


Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog
Watched us with angry eye,
Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass
The morsel he had left.


— And yet you will be like this corruption,
Like this horrible infection,
Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being,
You, my angel and my passion!


Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces,
After the last sacraments,
When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers,
To molder among the bones of the dead.


Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will
Devour you with kisses,
That I have kept the form and the divine essence
Of my decomposed love!

[jughead]

protoype for socioniko's.net iei description

[Creepy-male]

yea lol I was thinking the same thing hahaha, but crazedrat's writings don't remind me of baudelaire... just the picture

[WVBRY]

Fe-ENFj

[Nevero]

no clue about his type but I like this poem by him

I am as lovely as a dream in stone,
And this my heart where each finds death in turn,
Inspires the poet with a love as lone
As clay eternal and as taciturn.

Swan-white of heart, a sphinx no mortal knows,
My throne is in the heaven's azure deep;
I hate all movements that disturb my pose,
I smile not ever, neither do I weep.

Before my monumental attitudes,
That breathe a soul into the plastic arts,
My poets pray in austere studious moods,

For I, to fold enchantment round their hearts,
Have pools of light where beauty flames and dies,
The placid mirrors of my luminous eyes.

[Persephone]

4w5 sp/sx I would say... prolly IEI.
Any thoughts?

[Kalinoche buenanoche]

I LOVE Baudelaire! Fleur de Mal!! Whoo!
What's with that hand thing though? Very Napoleonic.

it's a masonic thing


he looks like robert de niro

[strrrng]

Ni-IEI

[Amber]

Baudelaire was probably a Sensing type. Why do all poets have to be IEI.

[ashlesha]

gotta be IEI