German playwright, poet, philosopher and historian (1759–1805)
Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller (10 November 1759 – 9 May 1805), usually known as Friedrich Schiller, was a German poet, physician, historian, dramatist, and playwright.
From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Native Name:
Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller
Alternative Names:
Schillerean
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Johann Christian Friedrich von Schiller
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Johann C. F. Schiller
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Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller
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Schiller
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Fridrikh Shiller
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Fridrikh Shiler
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F. Shiller
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Frideriko Schiller
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Joh. Christoph Friedrich von Schiller
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Frederick Schiller
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Hsi-le
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Friedrich von Schiller
From Wikidata (CC0)
You could be happy without me - but not become unhappy through me. This I felt alive in me - and thereupon I built my hopes. You could give yourself to another, but none could love you more purely or more completely than I did. To none could your happiness be holier, as it was to me, and always will be. My whole existence, everything that lives within me, everything, my most precious, I devote to you, and if I try to ennoble myself, that is done, in order to become ever worthier of you, to make you ever happier.
It was civilization itself which inflicted this wound upon modern man. Once the increase of empirical knowledge, and more exact modes of thought, made sharper divisions between the sciences inevitable, and once the increasingly complex machinery of State necessitated a more rigorous separation of ranks and occupations, then the inner unity of human nature was severed too, and a disastrous conflict set its harmonious powers at variance. The intuitive and the speculative understanding now withdrew in hostility to take up positions in their respective fields, whose frontiers they now began to guard with jealous mistrust; and with this confining of our activity to a particular sphere we have given ourselves a master within, who not infrequently ends by suppressing the rest of our potentialities. While in one a riotous imagination ravages the hard-won fruits of the intellect, in another the spirit of abstraction stifles the fire at which the heart should have warmed itself and the imagination been kindled.
Everlastingly chained to a single little fragment of the Whole, man himself develops into nothing but a fragment; everlastingly in his ear the monotonous sound of the wheel that he turns, he never develops the harmony of his being, and instead of putting the stamp of humanity upon his own nature, he becomes nothing more than the imprint of his occupation or of his specialized knowledge.
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