The Sorrows of Young Werther

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Every tree, every bush, is full of flowers; and one might wish himself transformed into a butterfly, to float about in this ocean of perfume, and find his whole existence in it.

A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart.

I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents.

treat my poor heart like a sick child, and gratify its every fancy.

That the life of man is but a dream, many a man has surmised heretofore; and I, too, am everywhere pursued by this feeling.

I am silent. I examine my own being, and find there a world, but a world rather of imagination and dim desires, than of distinctness and living power.

but yet, say what you will of rules, they destroy the genuine feeling of nature, as well as its true expression.

What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really excellent, and venture to give it expression;

and yet I find it impossible to tell you how perfect she is, or why she is so perfect: suffice it to say she has captivated all my senses.

I uttered some indifferent compliment: but my whole soul was absorbed by her air, her voice, her manner;

and, since that time, sun, moon, and stars may pursue their course: I know not whether it is day or night; the whole world is nothing to me.

A dim vastness is spread before our souls: the perceptions of our mind are as obscure as those of our vision; and we desire earnestly to surrender up our whole being, that it may be filled with the complete and perfect bliss of one glorious emotion.

But alas! when we have attained our object, when the distant there becomes the present here, all is changed: we are as poor and circumscribed as ever, and our souls still languish for unattainable happiness.

man is never satisfied

The consolation Charlotte can bring to an invalid I experience from my own heart, which suffers more from her absence than many a poor creature lingering on a bed of sickness.

he's so dramatic. he's just like me fr

Is it not enough that we want the power to make one another happy, must we deprive each other of the pleasure which we can all make for ourselves?

We see people happy, whom we have not made so, and cannot endure the sight.”

All the favours, all the attentions, in the world cannot compensate for the loss of that happiness which a cruel tyranny has destroyed.”

I looked around, and recalled the time when my heart was unoccupied and free.

we are happiest under the influence of innocent delusions.

My dear friend, I know not; and in this uncertainty I find consolation. Perhaps she turned to look at me. Perhaps!

me fr

You should see how foolish I look in company when her name is mentioned, particularly when I am asked plainly how I like her.

No, I am not deceived. In her dark eyes I read a genuine interest in me and in my fortunes.

bro...

and yet when she speaks of her betrothed with so much warmth and affection, I feel like the soldier who has been stripped of his honours and titles, and deprived of his sword.

Her innocent, unconscious heart never knows what agony these little familiarities inflict upon me.

no! my heart is not so corrupt, it is weak, weak enough but is not that a degree of corruption?

Sometimes, when I am ready to commit suicide, she sings that air; and instantly the gloom and madness which hung over me are dispersed, and I breathe freely again.

calm down

and, if love only show us fleeting shadows, we are yet happy, when, like mere children, we behold them, and are transported with the splendid phantoms.

“I shall see her to-day!” I exclaim with delight, when I rise in the morning, and look out with gladness of heart at the bright, beautiful sun. “I shall see her to-day!” And then I have no further wish to form: all, all is included in that one thought.

never felt happier, I never understood nature better, even down to the veriest stem or smallest blade of grass; and yet I am unable to express myself:

And now, behold me like a silly fellow, staring with astonishment when another comes in, and deprives me of my love.

Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extreme poverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, is he an object of pity, or of punishment?

Even our laws, cold and cruel as they are, relent in such cases, and withhold their punishment.”

She sees nothing of the wide world before her, thinks nothing of the many individuals who might supply the void in her heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by the world; and, blinded and impelled by the agony which wrings her soul, she plunges into the deep, to end her sufferings in the broad embrace of death.

Must it ever be thus,—that the source of our happiness must also be the fountain of our misery?

There is not a moment but preys upon you,—and upon all around you, not a moment in which you do not yourself become a destroyer.

My heart is wasted by the thought of that destructive power which lies concealed in every part of universal nature.

and the universe is to me a fearful monster, for ever devouring its own offspring.

bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future woes.

I am sometimes unconscious whether I really exist.

I enjoy no single moment of happiness: all is vain—nothing touches

All the knowledge I possess every one else can acquire, but my heart is exclusively my own.

I smile at the suggestions of my heart, and obey its dictates.

But, dear Wilhelm, he loves her with his whole soul; and what does not such a love deserve?

I am not alone unfortunate. All men are disappointed in their hopes, and deceived in their expectations.

I sometimes cannot understand how she can love another, how she dares love another, when I love nothing in this world so completely, so devotedly, as I love her, when I know only her, and have no other possession.

Why should I not reserve all my sorrow for myself?

This love, then, this constancy, this passion, is no poetical fiction.

“My dearest love, return as soon as possible: I await you with a thousand raptures.”

But it does not produce the same effect upon me. I know not how it is, but I hope in time I shall like it better.

bro it’s just a jacket omg

Sometimes I think, if I could only once—but once, press her to my heart, this dreadful void would be filled.