Jean Paul
Jean Paul
Jean Paul, born Johann Paul Friedrich Richter, was a German Romantic writer, best known for his humorous novels and stories...
NationalityGerman
ProfessionAuthor
Date of Birth21 March 1763
CountryGermany
firsts principles emotion
emotion is first of all and in principle an accident
madness absurd relation
A madman's ravings are absurd in relation to the situation in which he finds himself, but not in relation to his madness.
life blood shedding-blood
It is too early to love. We will buy the right to do so by shedding blood.
filled-up existentialism plunge
Time is too large, it can't be filled up. Everything you plunge into it is stretched and disintegrates.
existentialism nothingness
Nothingness haunts Being.
running men running-away
Better to have beasts that let themselves be killed than men who run away.
children chocolate pieces
It’s the well-behaved children that make the most formidable revolutionaries. They don’t say a word, they don’t hide under the table, they eat only one piece of chocolate at a time. But later on, they make society pay dearly.
reflection glasses heaven
Your scare me rather. My reflection in the glass never did that; of course, I knew it so well. Like something I had tamed...I'm going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.
want said dies
I said to myself, 'I want to die decently'.
ideas maintaining prove
Why do you keep maintaining your ideas are right if you can't prove them?
missing honey miss-me
Some of these days, Oh, you'll miss me honey
home years waiting
In the state I was in, if someone had come and told me I could go home quietly, that they would leave me my life whole, it would have left me cold: several hours or several years of waiting is all the same when you have lost the illusion of being eternal.
garden white streets
I am alone in this white, garden-rimmed street. Alone and free. But this freedom is rather like death.
men giving desire
And I too wanted to be. That is all I wanted; and this is the last word. At the bottom of all these attempts which seemed without bounds, I find the same desire again: to drive existence out of me, to rid the passing moments of their fat, to twist them, dry them, purify myself, harden myself, to give back at last the sharp, precise sound of a saxophone note. That could even make an apologue: there was a poor man who got in the wrong world.