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
Yes great people are always subject to persecution and always getting into straits.
In the society, where people are just parts in a larger machine, individuals are unable to develop fully.
A pity about the people! they are brave enough comrades, but they have heads like a soapboiler's.
There are occasions when the general belief of the people, even though it be groundless, works its effect as sure as truth itself.
If you want to study yourself, look into the hearts of other people. If you want to study other people, look into your own heart.
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
With stupidity the gods themselves struggle in vain.
If you want to know yourself, Just look how others do it; If you want to understand others, Look into your own heart. What is life without the radiance of love?
Man ever talks, and Man ever dreams Of better days that are yet to be, After glittering goal, that distant gleams, Running and racing untiringly. The worldly may grow old and young as it will, But the Hope of man is Improvement still. Hope bears him into life in her arms, She flutters around the boy's young bloom, The soul of youth with her magic warms, Nor rests with age in the silent tomb; For ends man his weary course at the grave, There plants he Hope o'er his ashes to wave.
A beautiful soul has no other merit, but it's existence
The brave person thinks of themselves last of all.