I've read a little bit of Goethe. Just like the Romantic movement in general, he has this life-affirming quality. Nietzsche was one of my favorites; it's always impressive when an individual actually loses their very sanity in the pursuit of their intellectual or artistic goals!
I was fascinated with the character of Goethe's Faust, when I read that book in college. I knew plenty of scientific materialists who lived in a world of despair, like Faust did, and were willing to make a "deal with the devil" to get a glimpse of the transcendence they both craved and dismissed. It's a modern problem that affects many of us, some more than others, and Goethe's play went straight to the heart of it. A really brilliant piece of art.
Goethe, the person, as I've read in bios about him, was a real character: mystic, naturalist, artist, politician and ladies man. As an aristocrat botanist, he enjoyed the natural world, but in a very removed style. He would be driven around in a carriage through the woods, and to avoid getting himself dirty, he would send one of his servants out to fetch the plant specimens that he wished to have. It's a funny image that has stayed with me!
Nietzche was definitely my favorite western philosopher, and his book, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, is one of my favorite philosophical writings. It's actually sort of hilarious in places, but in a profound way. I love the line about: "writing with blood," from one's true experience, and also really like the end of that particular section, about only believing in a God who knows how to dance.
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Of all that is written, I love only what a person hath written with his blood. Write with blood, and thou wilt find that blood is spirit.
It is no easy task to understand unfamiliar blood; I hate the reading idlers.
He who knoweth the reader, doeth nothing more for the reader. Another century of readers—and spirit itself will stink.
Every one being allowed to learn to read, ruineth in the long run not only writing but also thinking.
Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it even becometh populace.
He that writeth in blood and proverbs doth not want to be read, but learnt by heart....
Life is hard to bear: but do not affect to be so delicate! We are all of us fine sumpter asses and she-asses.
What have we in common with the rose-bud, which trembleth because a drop of dew hath formed upon it?
It is true we love life; not because we are wont to live, but because we are wont to love.
There is always some madness in love. But there is always, also, some method in madness.
And to me also, who appreciate life, the butterflies, and soap-bubbles, and whatever is like them amongst us, seem most to enjoy happiness.
To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little sprites flit about—that moveth Zarathustra to tears and songs.
I should only believe in a God that would know how to dance.
And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, solemn: he was the spirit of gravity—through him all things fall.
Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we slay. Come, let us slay the spirit of gravity!
I learned to walk; since then have I let myself run. I learned to fly; since then I do not need pushing in order to move from a spot.
Now am I light, now do I fly; now do I see myself under myself. Now there danceth a God in me.—
Thus spake Zarathustra."
