As literature, Werther leaves much to be desired. It’s stiff, melodramatic, and a bit too obvious. As a work by a particular man at a particular moment in time, Werther is fascinating. Written on the eve of the American Revolution by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe in Germany, Werther is a loose account of events that actually happened in Goethe’s life. In Werther - which poured out of Goethe in 4 weeks of frenetic activity - we get a glimpse of the violent emotions of a young Goethe, which is compelling in its own right. Of course, by sketching events that happened to him and his close friends, he alienated several of his close acquaintances and caused a scandal. But scandals sell - and Werther launched Goethe to international acclaim in Europe. Even Napoleon carried around a copy of Werther on his campaigns.

And check this out - Goethe often refers to “Ossian” as a counterpoint to Homer in Werther. This was a collection of ancient poems from the Scottish highlands that was emotionally charged and quite romanticized. Ossian was all the rage in Europe as Goethe was writing Werther. Turns out… Ossian was a total fabrication! The Scottish poet who had “found” the work had just made it up. Nuts.

Best quotes below:

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And in this small matter, my friend, I have realized once again that misunderstandings and lethargy can cause more going wrong in the world than cunning and wickedness do. At least, those two are certainly less common.

I know very well that we are not equal, nor can we be; but in my view anyone who feels it necessary to keep away from the so-called common herd to make them respect him is as much at fault as a coward who keeps himself hidden from his enemy for fear of defeat.

Human beings are much of a muchness. Most spend the greater part of their time working in order to live, and what bit of freedom they are left with makes them so anxious they strive by all available means to be rid of it. What a thing it is to be human!

And then, confined as you are, you harbour the sweet feeling of freedom in your heart and are conscious that you can always leave this prison* when you like.

This strengthened me in my resolve henceforth to hold only to Nature. She alone is infinitely rich and she alone can make the great artist. One can say a good deal in favour of the rules, roughly what one can say in favour of civil society. A person shaping himself after the rules will never produce anything that is tasteless or bad, just as a man who lets himself be formed by the law and by decorum will never be an intolerable neighbour or a remarkable miscreant; but say what you like, all rules destroy the true feeling of Nature and the true expression of Nature.

So the most restless wanderer longs in the end for his homeland again and finds in his cottage, in the arms of his wife, in the midst of his children, in the work of looking after them, the joy he had sought in vain in the wide world.

How glad I am that my heart can feel the simple and harmless joy of the man who brings a cabbage to his table that he grew himself and enjoys as he eats it the morning he planted it, the evenings he watered it, the delight he had in its thriving and growth, all that, all those good days, as he eats, he enjoys them again.

We should treat children as God treats us, and He makes us happiest when He lets us totter along in benign illusions.

It’s all a nonsense, and a man who at the behest of other people and not for his own passion or need works himself into the ground, for money or status or whatever else, is always a fool.

So much for taking precautions, my friend! There’ll always be some risk you hadn’t thought of.

I have been drunk more than once, my passions were never far from madness, and I regret neither for I have understood in my own capacity that all extraordinary people who ever achieved anything great, anything that seemed impossible, were always certain to be vilified as drunks and lunatics.

What undermines my heart is the devouring force which lies hidden in the universe of nature and which creates nothing that does not destroy its neighbour and itself.

The fact is, by our very nature we are bound to compare everything with ourselves and ourselves with everything, and so our happiness or misery lies in the objects we keep company with and nothing in that respect is more dangerous than solitude.

There’s no truer and warmer delight on earth than when a great soul opens itself to you.

Fools, that they can’t see it is not really a question of what place you occupy and that the man at the top rarely has the major role. Many a king is ruled by his minister and many a minister by his secretary. Who then is the top man? The one, so it seems to me, who oversees all others and is powerful or cunning enough to harness their energies and passions for the execution of his own plans.

I am indeed only a wanderer and a pilgrim on the earth. Are you any more than that?

The Sorrows of Young Werther - Likewise Book Reviews

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