On Wine and Hashish by Charles Baudelaire

This visible lord of visible nature (man, that is) has tried to capture paradise at a single blow by fermented drinks, and he is thus like a maniac replacing solid furniture and real gardens by stage sets painted on canvas and mounted on frames. It is in this perversion of the sense of the infinite that lies, in my opinion, the reason behind every culpable excess, from the solitary and concentrated intoxication of the man of letters who, obliged to seek in opium a relief for his physical pain, and having thereby discovered a source of intense and morbid pleasures, has little by little turned it into his unique regimen and, as it were, the sun of his spiritual life, to the most repellent drunkenness of the poorer parts of town, where its victims, brains afire with dreams of glory, wallow ridiculously in the filth of the street.

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