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Revenge is barren of itself: it is the dreadful food it feeds on its delight is murder, and its end is despair.
Friedrich Schiller
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Friedrich Schiller
Age: 45 †
Born: 1759
Born: November 10
Died: 1805
Died: May 9
Historian
Journalist
Librarian
Novelist
Philosopher
Physician Writer
Playwright
Poet
Translator
University Teacher
Writer
Marbach/Neckar
Schillerean
Johann Christian Friedrich von Schiller
Johann C. F. Schiller
Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller
Schiller
Fridrikh Shiller
Fridrikh Shiler
F. Shiller
Frideriko Schiller
Joh. Christoph Friedrich von Schiller
Frederick Schiller
Hsi-le
Friedrich von Schiller
Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller
Literature
Feeds
Ends
Dreadful
Barren
Revenge
Murder
Delight
Despair
Food
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Disappointments are to the soul what a thunderstorm is to the air.
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Forgiveness is the finding again of a lost possession.
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Ever building, building to the clouds, still building higher, and never reflecting that the poor narrow basis cannot sustain the giddy tottering column.
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Weep, for the light is dead.
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Our safety is not in blindness, but in facing our dangers.
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Obedience decks the Christian most.
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For the world is only governed by self-interest.
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Rigor pushed too far is sure to miss its aim, however good, as the bow snaps that is bent too stiffly.
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Man, one may say, was never in such a completely animal condition but he has, on the other hand, never escaped from it.
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Speech is always bolder than action.
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A beautiful soul has no other merit than its own existence.
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Utility is the great idol of the age, to which all powers must do service and all talents swear allegiance. In this great balance of utility, the spiritual service of art has no weight, and, deprived of all encouragement, it vanishes from the noisy Vanity Fair of our time.
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The Moor has done his work, the Moor may go.
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The voice of the majority is no proof of justice.
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The storm is master. Man, as a ball, is tossed twixt winds and billows.
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Secrecy is for the happy,--misery, hopeless misery, needs no veil under a thousand suns it dares act openly.
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Votes should be weighed not counted.
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What else is chance but the rude stone which receives its life from the sculptor's hand? Providence gives us chance, and man must mould it to his own designs.
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Sorrows must die with the joys they outnumber.
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