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Ah! The seasons of love roll not backward but onward, downward forever.

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
Onward
Backward
Roll
Seasons
Forever
Love
Life
Downward

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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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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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Like a morning dream, life becomes more and more bright the longer we live, and the reason of everything appears more clear. What has puzzled us before seems less mysterious, and the crooked paths look straighter as we approach the end.
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Sorrows are like thunderclouds, in the distance they look black, over our heads scarcely gray.
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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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Every man has a rainy corner of his life whence comes foul weather which follows him.
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Each departed friend is a magnet that attracts us to the next world.
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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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Jesus is the purest among the mighty, and the mightiest among the pure, who, with his pierced hand has raised empires from their foundations, turned the stream of history from its old channel, and still continues to rule and guide the ages
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Passion makes the best observations and the sorriest conclusions.
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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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Individuality is to be preserved and respected everywhere, as the root of everything good.
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Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out.
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Paradise is always where love dwells.
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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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He thought of the mouldering child, which laid its withered thin arms around his soul, as if it were his own, and to whom Death had given as much as a god gave to Endymion, — sleep, eternal youth, and immortality.
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Music is moonlight in the gloomy night of life.
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With so many thousand joys, is it not black ingratitude to call the world a place of sorrow and torment?
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Every friend is to the other a sun, and a sunflower also. He attracts and follows.
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feelings of man are always pure and the brightest to the meeting time and Farewell.
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