What is irritating about love is that it is a crime that requires an accomplice.

The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer. Exiled on the ground in the midst of the jeering crowd, his giant's wings keep him from walking.

Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.

Today I felt pass over me A breath of wind from the wings of madness.

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.

The will to work must dominate, for art is long and time is brief.

One can only forget about time by making use of it.