One can only forget about time by making use of it.
In our corruption we perceive beauties unrevealed to ancient times.
What a mysterious faculty is that queen of the faculties!
Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.
Nothing can be done except little by little.
We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose.