Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Quotes
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He who only tastes his error will long dwell with it, will take delight in it as in a singular felicity; while he who drains it to the dregs will, if he be not crazy, find it to be what it is.
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But when all is said, the greatest art is to limit and isolate oneself.
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Truth is a torch, but a terrific one; therefore we all try to reach it with closed eyes, lest we should be scorched.
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To have seen Italy without having seen Sicily is to not have seen Italy at all, for Sicily is the clue to everything.
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People are so constituted that everybody would rather undertake what they see others do, whether they have an aptitude for it or not.
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Each one of us must carry within the proof of immortality, it cannot be given from outside of us. To be sure, everything in natureis change but behind the change there is something eternal.
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A vain man can never be utterly ruthless: he wants to win applause and therefore he accommodates himself to others.
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We can always redeem the man who aspires and strives.
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Traveling is like gambling: it is always connected with winning and losing and generally where it is least expected we receive, more or less than what we hoped for.
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The little man is still a man.
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The rabble also vent their rage in words.
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Do thine own task, and be therewith content.
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There are few who have at once thought and capacity for action. Thought expands, but lames; action animates, but narrows.
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The field of experience is the whole universe in all directions. Theory remains shut up within the limits of human faculties.
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Man can find no better retreat from the world than art, and man can find no stronger link with the world than art.
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It is not enough to have knowledge; one must apply it. It is not enough to have wishes; one must also accomplish it.
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The ideal of beauty is simplicity and tranquility.
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Generally speaking, an author's style is a faithful copy of his mind. If you would write a lucid style, let there first be light in your own mind; and if you would write a grand style, you ought to have a grand character.
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The bed of flowers Loosens amain, The beauteous snowdrops Droop o'er the plain. The crocus opens Its glowing bud, Like emeralds others, Others, like blood. With saucy gesture Primroses flare, And roguish violets, Hidden with care; And whatsoever There stirs and strives, The Spring's contented, If works and thrives.
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They teach in academies far too many things, and far too much that is useless.
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True art can only spring from the intimate linking of the serious and the playful.
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Poor fool! in whose petty estimation all things are little.
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Only he who finds empiricism irksome is driven to method.
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All that is transitory is but a metaphor.