80+ Georg Buchner quotes


Georg Buchner Quotes
Biography Author’s Book
Name: Georg Buchner Find on Amazon India: Link
Nationality: GermanFind on Amazon: Link
Profession: Dramatist
Born: 17-Oct-1813 
Death: 19-Feb-1837

Whoever finishes a revolution only halfway, digs his own grave.

There are only Epicureans, either crude or refined; Christ was the most refined.

The strides of humanity are slow, they can only be counted in centuries.

The stars are scattered all over the sky like shimmering tears, there must be great pain in the eye from which they trickled.

The weapon of the Republic is terror, and virtue is its strength.

The revolutionary government is the despotism of liberty against tyranny.

The world is chaos. Nothingness is the yet-to-be-born god of the world.

The statue of Freedom has not been cast yet, the furnace is hot, we can all still burn our fingers.

They say in the grave there is peace, and peace and the grave are one and the same.

We are always on stage, even when we are stabbed in earnest at the end.

We have not made the Revolution, the Revolution has made us.

You women could make someone fall in love even with a lie.

Your words smell of corpses.

The power of the people and the power of reason are one.

How many women does one need to sing the scale of love all the way up and down?

We are only puppets, our strings are being pulled by unknown forces.

I’ll know how to die with courage; that is easier than living.

Love is a peculiar thing.

A good man with a good conscience doesn’t walk so fast.

Death is the most blessed dream.

Dying people often become childish.

Government must be a transparent garment which tightly clings to the people’s body.

The life of the wealthy is one long Sunday.

Murder begins where self-defense ends.

One must love humanity in order to reach out into the unique essence of each individual: no one can be too low or too ugly.

Peace to the shacks! War on the palaces!

Raise your eyes and count the small gang of your oppressors who are only strong through the blood they suck from you and through your arms which you lend them unwillingly.

Revolution is like Saturn, it devours its own children.

That is a long word: forever!

The breath of an aristocrat is the death rattle of freedom.

The death clock is ticking slowly in our breast, and each drop of blood measures its time, and our life is a lingering fever.


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