Explore "The Confiteor of the Artist" by Charles Pierre Baudelaire on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
How penetrating is the end of an autumn day! Ah, yes, penetrating enough / to be painful even; for there are certain delicious sensations whose / vagueness does not prevent them from being intense; and none more keen / than the perception of the Infinite. He has a great delight who drowns / his gaze in the immensity of sky and sea. Solitude, silence, the / incomparable chastity of the azure -- a little sail trembling upon the / horizon, by its very littleness and isolation imitating my irremediable / existence -- the melodious monotone of the surge -- all these things / thinking through me and I through them (for in the grandeur of the / reverie the Ego is swiftly lost); they think, I say, but musically and / picturesquely, without quibbles, without syllogisms, without deductions.
These thoughts, as they arise in me or spring forth from external / objects, soon become always too intense. The energy working within / pleasure creates an uneasiness, a positive suffering. My nerves are too / tense to give other than clamouring and dolorous vibrations.