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Not without a shudder may the human hand reach into the mysterious urn of destiny.
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
Without
Fate
Destiny
Hand
Literature
Hands
May
Shudder
Human
Mysterious
Humans
Reach
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Truth lives on in the midst of deception.
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Only through Beauty's morning-gate, dost thou penetrate the land of knowledge.
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Cowards have done good and kind actions, but a coward never pardoned.
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I feel that I am a man of destiny.
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Art is difficult, transient is her reward.
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Many a crown shines spotless now that yet was deeply sullied in the winning.
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Accursed be he who plays with the devil.
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Deaf rage that hears no leader.
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Futurity is impregnable to mortal ken: no prayer pierces through heaven's adamantine walls. Whether the birds fly right or left, whatever be the aspect of the stars, the book of nature is a maze, dreams are a lie, and every sign a falsehood.
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It is not the mere station of life that stamps the value on us, but the manner in which we act our part.
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O who knows what slumbers in the background of the times?
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The painter is, as to the execution of his work, a mechanic but as to his conception and spirit and design he is hardly below even the poet.
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On the mountains there is freedom! The world is perfect everywhere, Save where man comes with his torment.
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The game of life looks cheerful when one carries a treasure safe in his heart.
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Man is made of ordinary things, and habit is his nurse.
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Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel for the first violet which March brings us, the fragrant pledge of the new-fledged year.
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Joy is the mainspring in the whole Of endless Nature's calm rotation. Joy moves the dazzling wheels that roll In the great Time-piece of Creation.
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Man is made of the wholly common, and custom is his nurse woe then to them who lay irreverent hands on his old house-furniture, the dear inheritance from his forefathers: For time consecrates, and what is gray with age becomes religion.
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There is a nobility in the world of manners.
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O God, how lovely still is life!
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