There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start.

In order not to feel time's horrid fardel bruise your shoulders, grinding you into the earth, get drunk and stay that way. On what? On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever. But get drunk!

A silent mouth is sweet to hear.

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

Progress, this great heresy of decay.

So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, be endlessly drunk.

Whether you come from heaven or hell, what does it matter, O Beauty!