August Strindberg
August Strindberg
Johan August Strindberg; 22 January 1849 – 14 May 1912) was a Swedish playwright, novelist, poet, essayist and painter. A prolific writer who often drew directly on his personal experience, Strindberg's career spanned four decades, during which time he wrote over 60 plays and more than 30 works of fiction, autobiography, history, cultural analysis, and politics. A bold experimenter and iconoclast throughout, he explored a wide range of dramatic methods and purposes, from naturalistic tragedy, monodrama, and history plays, to...
NationalitySwedish
ProfessionPlaywright
Date of Birth22 January 1849
CityStockholm, Sweden
CountrySweden
I do not care about my own appearance, but I would hope that people could see into my soul, and that is presented better in these photographs than in others. (On his self-portraits)
People who keep dogs are cowards who haven't got the guts to bite people themselves.
The will ... is the driving force of the mind. If it's injured, the mind falls to pieces.
The world, life and human beings are only an illusion, a phantom, a dream image.
When I free my body from its clothes, from all their buttons, belts, and laces, it seems to me that my soul takes a deeper, freer breath.
That is the thankless position of the father in the family-the provider for all, and the enemy of all.
Friendship can only exist between persons with similar interests and points of view. Man and woman by the conventions of society are born with different interests and different points of view.
Sometimes not seeing things can be a blessing.
Society is a madhouse whose wardens are the officials and the police.
Now I know the full power of evil. It makes ugliness seem beautiful and goodness seem ugly and weak.
I find my joy of living in the fierce and ruthless battles of life, and my pleasure comes from learning something.
No matter how far we travel, the memories will follow in the baggage car.
On the much revered family of North American mythology - and a metaphor for the Ruling Alliance: Sacred family! .... The supposed home of all the virtues, where innocent children are tortured into their first falsehoods, where wills are broken by parental tyranny, and self-respect smothered by crowded, jostling egos.
I love her and she loves me, and we hate each other with a wild hatred born of love.