Georg Buchner (1813 – 1837)
German dramatist and writer of prose.
That is a long word: forever!
The statue of Freedom has not been cast yet, the furnace is hot, we can all still burn our fingers.
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.
Whoever finishes a revolution only halfway, digs his own grave.
Supreme power rests in the will of all or of the majority.
I’ll know how to die with courage; that is easier than living.
Murder begins where self-defense ends.
The strides of humanity are slow, they can only be counted in centuries.
People like us are unhappy in this world and in the next, I guess if we made it to heaven, we’d have to help make it thunder.
The stars are scattered all over the sky like shimmering tears, there must be great pain in the eye from which they trickled.
The death clock is ticking slowly in our breast, and each drop of blood measures its time, and our life is a lingering fever.
The power of the people and the power of reason are one.
The revolutionary government is the despotism of liberty against tyranny.
The breath of an aristocrat is the death rattle of freedom.
The weapon of the Republic is terror, and virtue is its strength.
They say in the grave there is peace, and peace and the grave are one and the same.
Your words smell of corpses.
We have not made the Revolution, the Revolution has made us.