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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.

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
Whether
Scourge
Idea
Martyr
Ideas
Arena
Writing
Drives
Fight
Talk
Dies
Scourges
Fighting
Martyrs

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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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I have never seen an ass who talked like a human being, but I have met many human beings who talked like asses.
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Every age thinks its battle the most important of all.
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Tell me who first did kisses suggest? It was a mouth all glowing and blest It kissed and it thought of nothing beside. The fair month of May was then in its pride, The flowers were all from the earth fast springing, The sun was laughing, the birds were singing.
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The negro king desired to be portrayed as white. But do not laugh at the poor African for every man is but another negro king, and would like to appear in a color different from that with which Fate has bedaubed him.
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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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Where words leave off, music begins.
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Wild, dark times are rumbling toward us, and the prophet who wishes to write a new apocalypse will have to invent entirely new beasts, and beasts so terrible that the ancient animal symbols of St. John will seem like cooing doves and cupids in comparison.
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It is an ancient story Yet is it ever new.
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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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While we are indifferent to our good qualities, we keep on deceiving ourselves in regard to our faults, until we come to look on them as virtues.
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If thou lookest on the lime-leaf, Thou a heart's form will discover Therefore are the lindens ever Chosen seats of each fond lover.
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Newness hath an evanescent beauty.
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A brainiac notices everything, an ignoramus comments about everything.
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I do not know the meaning of my sadness there is an old fairy tale that I cannot get out of my mind.
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Laughter is wholesome. God is not so dull as some people make out. Did not He make the kitten to chase its tail.
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He who fights with priests may make up his mind to have his poor good name torn and befouled by the most infamous lies and the most cutting slanders.
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Music is a strange thing. I would almost say it is a miracle.
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Everywhere that a great soul gives utterance to its thoughts, there also is a Golgotha.
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First, I thought, almost despairing, This must crush my spirit now Yet I bore it, and am bearing- Only do not ask me how.
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