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If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.

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
Heart
Masses
Mass
Write
Cannot
Writing

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Wherever books are burned, human beings are destined to be burned too.
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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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And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go. They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.
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On the waves of the brook she dances by, The light, the lovely dragon-fly She dances here, she dances there, The shimmering, glimmering flutterer fair. And many a foolish young beetle's impressed By the blue gauze gown in which she is dressed They admire the enamel that decks her bright, And her elegant waist so slim and slight.
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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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Where books are burned in the end people will be burned too.
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Like a great poet, Nature knows how to produce the greatest effects with the most limited means.
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Talking and eloquence are not the same: to speak and to speak well are two things. A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks.
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Whether a revolution succeeds or fails people of great hearts will always be sacrificed to it.
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Lo, sleep is good, better is death--in sooth The best of all were never to be born.
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No talent, but yet a character. [Ger., Kein talent, doch ein Charakter.]
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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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Every age has its problem, by solving which humanity is helped forward.
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Oh, they loved dearly: their souls kissed, they kissed with their eyes, they were both but one single kiss.
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Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions.
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The arrow belongs not to the archer when it has once left the bow the word no longer belongs to the speaker when it has once passed his lips, especially when it has been multiplied by the press.
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I fell asleep reading a dull book and dreamed I kept on reading, so I awoke from sheer boredom.
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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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Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-time.
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I do not know if she was virtuous, but she was ugly, and with a woman that is half the battle.
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