Charles Baudelaire Quotes

Is boredom anything less than the sense of one's faculties slowly dying?

Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.

So I sit there kicked my heels, thinking about New Orleans, and watching a morbid blue-bottle fly attempt to commit suicide by butting his head against the windowpane.

Winter is the season of alcoholism and despair.

I feel monotony and death to be almost the same.

Dullness is the enemy.

The flesh, alas, is sad, and I have read all the books.

If I'm not doing anything, I get really antsy and bored.

It is so boring when you have seven days without a game.

Oddly enough I never used to suffer from depression on cold, gray, cloudy days like this. I feel as if nature is in harmony with me, that it reflected my soul. On the other hand, when the sun appeared, the children would come out to play in the streets, and everyone was happy that it was such a lovely day, and then I would feel terrible, as if that display of exuberance in which i could not participate was somehow unfair.

I mean, evil and boredom. Evil and ennui. Evil and the lack of stimulation. Evil and sluggish blood.

I feel the terror of idleness, like a red thirst. Death isn't just an idea.

I like these cold, gray winter days. Days like these let you savor a bad mood.

Though February lay about her shoulders like a cloak of lead.

My boredom with everything has numbed me.

I do not like January very much. It is too stationary. Not enough happens. I like the evidences of life, and in January there are too few of them.

Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, ate infrequently, and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death.

Symmetry is ennui, and ennui is the very essence of grief and melancholy. Despair yawns.

Boredom makes me sleepy or restless.

Where has thou been all the dumb winter days When neither sunlight was nor smile of flowers, Neither life, nor love, nor frolic, Only expanse melancholic, With never a note of thy exhilarating lays?

It's boredom. No other reason than that.

The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits.

The gloomy and the resentful are always found among those who have nothing to do or who do nothing.

Symmetry is tedious, and tedium is the very basis of mourning. Despair yawns.