Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Johann WolfgangGoethetə/; German: ; 28 August 1749 – 22 March 1832) was a German writer and statesman. His body of work includes epic and lyric poetry written in a variety of metres and styles; prose and verse dramas; memoirs; an autobiography; literary and aesthetic criticism; treatises on botany, anatomy, and colour; and four novels. In addition, numerous literary and scientific fragments, more than 10,000 letters, and nearly 3,000 drawings by him exist...
NationalityGerman
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth28 August 1749
CountryGermany
The greatest piece of folly is that every man thinks himself compelled to hand down what people think they have known.
With the growth of knowledge our ideas must from time to time be organized afresh. The change takes place usually in accordance with new maxims as they arise, but it always remains provisional.
The history of knowledge is a great fugue in which the voices of the nations one after the other emerge.
What a man does not understand, he does not possess.
Mere curiosity adds wings to every step.
Whoso is content with pure experience and acts upon it has enough of truth.
There is repetition everywhere, and nothing is found only once in the world.
Nothing is true, but that which is simple.
It is related of an Englishman that he hanged himself to avoid the daily task of dressing and undressing.
Quite often, as life goes on, when we feel completely secure as we go on our way, we suddenly notice that we are trapped in error, that we have allowed ourselves to be taken in by individuals, by objects, have dreamt up an affinity with them which immediately vanishes before our waking eye; and yet we cannot tear ourselves away, held fast by some power that seems incomprehensible to us. Sometimes, however, we become fully aware and realize that error as well as truth can move and spur us on to action.
Giving is the business of the rich.
Then to the depths! - I could as well say height: It's all the same.
That which is eternal in Woman lifts us above.
Who never ate his bread in sorrow, Who never spent the darksome hours Weeping, and watching for the morrow,- He knows you not, ye heavenly Powers.