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

It is this admirable, this immortal, instinctive sense of beauty that leads us to look upon the spectacle of this world as a glimpse, a correspondence with heaven. Our unquenchable thirst for all that lies beyond, and that life reveals, is the liveliest proof of our immortality. It is both by poetry and through poetry, by music and through music, that the soul dimly descries the splendours beyond the tomb; and when an exquisite poem brings tears to our eyes, those tears are not a proof of overabundant joy: they bear witness rather to an impatient melancholy, a clamant demand by our nerves, our nature, exiled in imperfection, which would fain enter into immediate possession, while still on this earth, of a revealed paradise.

We have psychologized like the insane, who aggravate their madness in struggling to understand it.

It is the hour when the swarm of malevolent dreams
Makes sun-browned adolescents writhe upon their pillows.