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The words that a father speaks to his children in the privacy of home are not heard by the world, but, as in whispering galleries, they are clearly heard at the end, and by posterity.

Jean Paul

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Jean Paul
Age: 62 †
Born: 1763
Born: March 21
Died: 1825
Died: November 14
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Johann Paul Friedrich Richter
Jean Paul Richter
Zhen Polʹ Friderik Rikhter
Jean Paul
Johann Paul Richter
Words
Posterity
Speak
Speaks
Father
Privacy
Ends
Clearly
Home
Dad
Galleries
Children
Influence
Fatherhood
World
Heard
Whispering
Family
Gallery

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Romanticism is beauty without bounds-the beautiful infinite.
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For sleep, riches and health to be truly enjoyed and gratefully appreciated, they must be interrupted so the person can see that not having them is not as good as having them.
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Music is moonlight in the gloomy night of life.
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What a father says to his children is not heard by the world, but it will be heard by posterity.
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Only deeds give strength to life, only moderation gives it charm.
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The heart needs not for its heaven much space, nor many stars therein, if only the star of love has arisen.
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The burden of suffering seems a tombstone hung about our necks, while in reality it is only the weight which is necessary to keep down the diver while he is hunting for pearls.
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The look of a king is itself a deed.
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I have made as much out of myself as could be made of the stuff, and no man should require more.
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No heroine can create a hero through love of one, but she can give birth to one
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Never part without loving words to think of during your absence. It may be that you will not meet again in this life.
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As a man grows older it is harder and harder to frighten him.
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Man has here two and a half minutes-one to smile, one to sigh, and a half to love: for in the midst of this minute he dies.
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Sorrows are like thunderclouds, in the distance they look black, over our heads scarcely gray.
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Sorrows gather around great souls as storms do around mountains but, like them, they break the storm and purify the air of the plain beneath them.
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The last, best fruit which comes to late perfection, even in the kindliest soul, is tenderness toward the hard, forbearance toward the unforbearing, warmth of heart toward the cold, philanthropy toward the misanthropic.
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As winter strips the leaves from around us, so that we may see the distant regions they formerly concealed, so old age takes away our enjoyments only to enlarge the prospect of the coming eternity.
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Every friend is to the other a sun, and a sunflower also. He attracts and follows.
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We learn our virtues from our friends who love us our faults from the enemy who hates us. We cannot easily discover our real character from a friend. He is a mirror, on which the warmth of our breath impedes the clearness of the reflection.
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Because the heart beats under a covering of hair, of fur, feathers, or wings, it is, for that reason, to be of no account?
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