Character: J. W. Goethe. Page 3

I only wrote love poems when I was in love.

I ran through the fields and meadows, the blood pounded in me, I began to talk nonsense, and poems were obtained.

The demonic is something that neither reason nor reason can comprehend. It is alien to my nature, but I am subject to it.

First believe in the value of peace.

From the height of the mind, all life seems to be an evil ailment, and the world is a madhouse.

What is said without personal interest, without the attachment of love, does not deserve attention.

The unusual that creates outstanding talents involves a very fragile organization that allows them to experience rare feelings and hear heavenly voices. Such an organization, coming into conflict with the world and the elements, is easily vulnerable.

I, like a flame, are alien to peace.

Have pity on this extraordinary man, have pity on him for the fact that he lived in such a miserable time that all his life he had to incessantly engage in polemics.