The rhythm,” said Goethe, “is an unconscious result of the poetic mood. If one should stop to consider it mechanically, when about to write a poem, one would become bewildered and accomplish nothing of real poetical value.“ – Ibid.
Sometimes, when I am ready to commit suicide, she sings that air; and instantly the gloom and madness which hung over me are dispersed, and I breathe freely again.
I cannot help esteeming Albert. The coolness of his temper contrasts strongly with the impetuosity of mine, which I cannot conceal. He has a great deal of feeling, and is fully sensible of the treasure he possesses in Charlotte. He is free from ill-humour, which you know is the fault I detest most.
The most important thing to remember is that all fact is already theory.
My friend!” I exclaimed, “man is but man; and, whatever be the extent of his reasoning powers, they are of little avail when passion rages within, and he feels himself confined by the narrow limits of nature.
In vain do I stretch out my arms toward her when I awaken in the morning from my weary slumbers. In vain do I seek for her at night in my bed, when some innocent dream has happily deceived me, and placed her near me in the fields, when I have seized her hand and covered it with countless kisses. And when I feel for her in the half confusion of sleep, with the happy sense that she is near, tears flow from my oppressed heart; and, bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future woes.
I smile at the suggestions of my heart, and obey its dictates.
O Wilhelm! the hermit’s cell, his sackcloth, and girdle of thorns would be luxury and indulgence compared with what I suffer. Adieu! I see no end to this wretchedness except the grave.
Lo digno no se puede describir.
Dobbiamo dunque dar sempre una forma artificiale ai fenomeni naturali, per poter sentirci partecipi del loro accadersi.
Sono felice e soddisfatto, e dunque un pessimo narratore.
Now, nothing annoys me more than when people torment one another, especially when young people who, in the bloom of life, could be at their most open to all manner of delights, spoil the few good days for one another by a sour behaviour and realize only when it is too late to make good, just what they have wasted.
Bad moods are just like sloth, indeed they are a form of sloth. Both are very natural to us, but if we only have the strength to pull ourselves together the task becomes easy and in being active we can find a real pleasure.
No credit to those,′ I said, ’who use the power they have over a heart to rob it of the simple joys that are engendered in it. No gifts and courtesies of the world can make up for the moment’s pleasure in ourselves spoilt for us by the envious truculence of our tyrant.
Why must people,′ I crie, ’when they speak of a thing say at once this is foolish, this is wise, this is good, this is bad? And what does it all mean when they do? Have they first delved into the inner circumstances of an act? Can they with certainty unravel the reasons why it was done, why it was bound to be one? If they have and can, surely they would not be so quick to judge.
Quando il sole sorge la mattina promettendo una magnifica giornata, non riesco mai a trattenermi dall’esclamare: Ecco, ora hanno un altro dono del Cielo che non tentino di sottrarsi a vicenda: salute, buon nome, gioia, riposo.
Woe betide anybody who could look on and say, “The fool! If she had waited, if she had let time do its work, her despair would have settled, some other man would have come along and consoled her.“ – It is as if one said, “The fool, dying of a fever! If he’d waited till his strength came back, till his fluids had run clear and the tumult in his blood had quietened, all would have been well and he’d be alive today.
The yeast is lacking that quickened my life; whatever kept me wakeful deep into the night and woke me from my sleep when morning came, is lost, is gone.
Oh, a man is such a passing thing that even in the place where he has the real certainty of his existence, where he makes the only true impression of his presence, in the remembrance, in the souls of his loved ones, even there he will be extinguished, even from there he will disappear – and before very long.
So cold, so frozenly to knock at the brazen gates of death.
Quando in una bella sera d’estate tu salirai sulla collina, ricordati di me: ricorda quante volte ho attraversato la valle, poi volgi il tuo sguardo verso il cimitero, verso la mia tomba; guarda il vento che fa ondeggiare l’erba alta nello splendore del sole che tramonta... Ero tranquillo quando ho cominciato a scrivere, e ora... ora piango come un bambino pensando a tutto questo rigoglio di vita intorno a me.