Quote

Because the heart beats under a covering of hair, of fur, feathers, or wings, it is, for that reason, to be of no account?

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
Reason
Pet
Heart
Rapper
Account
Accounts
Wings
Beats
Fur
Hair
Covering
Animal
Feathers

More quotes by Jean Paul

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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.
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The German language is the organ among the languages.
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Joy descends gently upon us like the evening dew, and does not patter down like a hailstorm.
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Variety of mere nothings gives more pleasure than uniformity of something.
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Age doesn't matter, unless your cheese.
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Paradise is always where love dwells.
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The gymnasium of running, walking on stilts, climbing, etc. stells and makes hardy single powers and muscles, but dancing, like a corporeal poesy, embellishes, exercises, and equalizes all the muscles at once.
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Individuality is to be preserved and respected everywhere, as the root of everything good.
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Repetition is the mother of education.
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It is simpler and easier to flatter people than to praise them.
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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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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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Ah! The seasons of love roll not backward but onward, downward forever.
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I would rather dwell in the dim fog of superstition than in air rarefied to nothing by the air-pump of unbelief-in which the panting breast expires, vainly and convulsively gasping for breath.
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Love lessens woman's delicacy and increases man's.
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Memory, wit, fancy, acuteness, cannot grow young again in old age, but the heart can.
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A sky full of silent suns.
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It is not the end of joy that makes old age so sad, but the end of hope.
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Nations and men are only the best when they are the gladdest, and deserve heaven when they enjoy it.
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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.
Jean Paul