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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.
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
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Dusseldorf
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine
Heinrich Heine
Christian Heine
Christian Johann Heinrich Harry Heine
Half
Woman
Virtuous
Ugly
Battle
Literature
More quotes by Heinrich Heine
The men of action are, after all, only the unconscious instruments of the men of thought.
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If the Romans had been obliged to learn Latin, they would never have found time to conquer the world.
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The foolish race of mankind are swarming below in the night they shriek and rage and quarrel - and all of them are right.
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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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Each violet peeps from its dwelling to gaze at the bright stars above.
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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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Thought is invisible nature.
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He is noble who both feels and acts nobly.
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The devil take these people and their language! They take a dozen monosyllabic words in their jaws, chew them, crunch them and spit them out again, and call that speaking. Fortunately they are by nature fairly silent, and although they gaze at us open-mouthed, they spare us long conversations.
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Pretty women without religion are like flowers without perfume.
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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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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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It must require an inordinate share of vanity and presumption, too, after enjoying so much that is good and beautiful on earth, to ask the Lord for immortality in addition to it all.
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Glow-worms on the ground are moving, As if in the torch-dance circling.
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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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The cloudlets are lazily sailing O'er the blue Atlantic sea And mid the twilight there hovers A shadowy figure o'er me.
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Religion cannot sink lower than when somehow it is raised to a state religion ... It becomes then an avowed mistress.
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God will forgive me. It's his job.
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The swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.
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