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Memory, wit, fancy, acuteness, cannot grow young again in old age, but the heart can.

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
Young
Aging
Heart
Fancy
Memory
Grow
Memories
Grows
Age
Acuteness
Cannot
Wit

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Ah! The seasons of love roll not backward but onward, downward forever.
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Every man regards his own life as the New Year's Eve of time.
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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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Nations and men are only the best when they are the gladdest, and deserve heaven when they enjoy it.
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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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The German language is the organ among the languages.
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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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Love lessens woman's delicacy and increases man's.
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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 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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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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The look of a king is itself a deed.
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Sorrows are like thunderclouds, in the distance they look black, over our heads scarcely gray.
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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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Music is moonlight in the gloomy night of life.
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Art is indeed not the bread but the wine of life.
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It is easier and handier for men to flatter than to praise.
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Each departed friend is a magnet that attracts us to the next world.
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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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Despair is the only genuine atheism.
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