Friedrich Schiller
Friedrich Schiller
Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schillerwas a German poet, philosopher, physician, historian, and playwright. During the last seventeen years of his life, Schiller struck up a productive, if complicated, friendship with the already famous and influential Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. They frequently discussed issues concerning aesthetics, and Schiller encouraged Goethe to finish works he left as sketches. This relationship and these discussions led to a period now referred to as Weimar Classicism. They also worked together on Xenien, a collection of...
NationalityGerman
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth10 November 1759
CountryGermany
No greater grief than to remember days of gladness when sorrow is at hand.
Not without a shudder may the human hand reach into the mysterious urn of destiny.
Man, one may say, was never in such a completely animal condition; but he has, on the other hand, never escaped from it.
Ah, to that far distant strand Bridge there was not to convey, Not a bark was near at hand, Yet true love soon found the way.
Man is made of the wholly common, and custom is his nurse; woe then to them who lay irreverent hands on his old house-furniture, the dear inheritance from his forefathers: For time consecrates, and what is gray with age becomes religion.
What else is chance but the rude stone which receives its life from the sculptor's hand? Providence gives us chance, and man must mould it to his own designs.
Art is the right hand of Nature.
It is at the approach of extreme danger when a hollow puppet can accomplish nothing, that power falls into the mighty hands of nature, of the spirit giant-born, who listens only to himself, and knows nothing of compacts.
Art is the right hand of Nature. The latter has only given us being, the former has made us men.
The dignity of man into your hands is given; Oh, keep it well, with you it sinks or lifts itself to heaven.
Disappointments are to the soul what the thunder-storm is to the air
Have hope. Though clouds environs now,And gladness hides her face in scorn,Put thou the shadow from my brow --No night but hath its morn.
Philosophers ruin language, poets ruin logic, but with human reasoning alone man will never make it through life.
Only those who have to do simple things perfectly will acquire the skill to do difficult things easily