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There is one thing on earth more terrible than English music, and that is English painting.

Heinrich Heine

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Heinrich Heine
Age: 58 †
Born: 1797
Born: December 13
Died: 1856
Died: February 17
Author
Essayist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Publicist
Writer
Dusseldorf
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine
Heinrich Heine
Christian Heine
Christian Johann Heinrich Harry Heine
Music
Thing
Sarcastic
English
Painting
Terrible
Earth

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You talk of our having an idea we do not have an idea. The idea has us, and martyrs us, and scourges us, and drives us into the arena to fight and die for it, whether we want to or not.
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Poverty sits by the cradle of all our great men and rocks all of them to manhood.
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There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.
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I call'd the devil, and he came, And with wonder his form did I closely scan He is not ugly, and is not lame, But really a handsome and charming man. A man in the prime of life is the devil, Obliging, a man of the world, and civil A diplomatist too, well skill'd in debate, He talks quite glibly of church and state.
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God will forgive me. It's his job.
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My heart resembles the ocean has storm, and ebb and flow and many a beautiful pearl lies hid in its depths below.
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God has given us speech in order that we may say pleasant things to our friends, and tell bitter truths to our enemies.
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A brainiac notices everything, an ignoramus comments about everything.
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But a day must come when the fire of youth will be quenched in my veins, when winter will dwell in my heart, when his snow flakes will whiten my locks, and his mists will dim my eyes. Then my friends will lie in their lonely grave, and I alone will remain like a solitary stalk forgotten by the reaper.
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Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-time.
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Perhaps already I am dead, And these perhaps are phantoms vain - These motley phantasies that pass At night through my disordered brain. Perhaps with ancient heathen shapes, Old faded gods, this brain is full Who, for their most unholy rites, Have chosen a dead poet's skull.
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We know only that our entire existence is forced into new paths and disrupted, that new circumstances, new joys and new sorrows await us, and that the unknown has its uncanny attractions, alluring and at the same time anguishing.
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He only profits from praise who values criticism.
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The gazelles so gentle and clever Skip lightly in frolicsome mood.
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All our contemporary philosophers perhaps without knowing it are looking through eyeglasses that Baruch Spinoza polished. Spinoza was a philosopher who earned his livelihood by grinding lenses.
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The butterfly long loved the beautiful rose, And flirted around all day While round him in turn with her golden caress, Soft fluttered the sun's warm ray.... I know not with whom the rose was in love, But I know that I loved them all. The butterfly, rose, and the sun's bright ray, The star and the bird's sweet call.
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In the image of the lion made He kittens small and curious.
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The nightingale appear'd the first, And as her melody she sang, The apple into blossom burst, To life the grass and violets sprang.
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In vain would I seek to discover Why sad and mournful am I, My thoughts without ceasing brood over A tale of the time gone by.
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Every age has its problem, by solving which humanity is helped forward.
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