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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
Publicist
Writer
Dusseldorf
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine
Heinrich Heine
Christian Heine
Christian Johann Heinrich Harry Heine
Half
Woman
Virtuous
Ugly
Battle
Literature

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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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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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Never let a fool kiss you, or a kiss fool you. Oh, what lies there are in kisses!
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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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Music is a strange thing. I would almost say it is a miracle.
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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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I consider it a degradation and a stain on my honor to submit to baptism in order to qualify myself for state employment in Prussia.
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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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Life is all too wondrous sweet, and the world is so beautifully bewildered it is the dream of an intoxicated divinity.
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Money is the god of our time, and Rothschild is his prophet.
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Wherever books are burned, human beings are destined to be burned too.
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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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It is an ancient story Yet is it ever new.
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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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Ordinarily he was insane, but he had lucid moments when he was merely stupid
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There is only one writer in whom I find something that reminds me of the directness of style which is found in the Bible. It is Shakespeare.
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Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.
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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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Newness hath an evanescent beauty.
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If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.
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