The world runs on from one folly to another; and the man who, solely from regard to the opinion of others, and without any wish or necessity of his own, toils after gold, honour, or any other phantom, is no better than a fool.
Johann Wolfgang von GoetheWeary of liberty, he suffered himself to be saddled and bridled, and was ridden to death for his pains.
Johann Wolfgang von GoetheWould you require a wretched being, whose life is slowly wasting under a lingering disease, to despatch himself at once by the stroke of a dagger? Does not the very disorder which consumes his strength deprive him of the courage to effect his deliverance?
Johann Wolfgang von GoetheMy days are as happy as those reserved by God for his elect; and whatever be my fate hereafter, I can never say that I have not tasted joy— the purest joy of life.
Johann Wolfgang von GoetheThe suffering may be moral or physical; and in my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man a coward who destroys himself, as to call a man a coward who dies of a malignant fever.
Johann Wolfgang von GoetheIt is in vain that a man of sound mind and cool temper understands the condition of such a wretched being... He can no more communicate his own wisdom to him than a healthy man can instil his strength into the invalid by whose bedside he is seated.
Johann Wolfgang von GoetheIs this the destiny of man? Is he only happy before he has acquired his reason or after he has lost it?
Johann Wolfgang von GoetheIn happy ignorance, I sighed for a world I did not know, where I hoped to find every pleasure and enjoyment which my heart could desire; and now, on my return from that wide world... how many disappointed hopes and unsuccessful plans have I brought back!
Johann Wolfgang von GoetheThe Beginning and end of all literary activity is the reproduction of the world that surrounds me by means of the world that is in me, all things being grasped, related, recreated, molded, and reconstructed in a personal form and original manner.
Johann Wolfgang von GoetheNothing higher can be accomplished by the epic poet thus interpreting his own time in order to serve the future.
(Foreword by Frederick Ungar in Elective Affinities, 1962, Ungar Publishing)
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