He must have identified strongly with the feelings expressed by his protagonist and have seen many of the same self-destructive tendencies in himself. Werther is not deserving of the adoration, even emulation, lavished upon him by the reading public of the 1770's, but he is deserving of our pity. The fate he suffers is tragic, but not in the grand Shakespearan sense he imagined. His tragedy is that of the wasted life, of potential frittered away. A bright, sensitive young man with many good qualities, he stands as a warning about the consequences of unfettered emotionalism and a complete lack of self-discipline. A wise man once said that all things should be taken in moderation, a concept which completely eludes Werther.
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Subtler clues about goethe's attitude toward resume Werther are sprinkled through the text. I know, of course, as well as anyone, how necessary class distinctions are, and how many advantages I myself gain from them; but they should not stand in my way just when I might enjoy some good little pleasure, some gleam of joy on this earth. One senses on such occasions that goethe is as aware as we of the flaws and contradictions of his character and is subtly smiling at us between the lines. There are too many differences between goethe and Werther to link the two in a directly autobiographical sense. At the age of 24, goethe had already written plays and lyric poetry, was conducting scientific research and with the publication. Werther now had a novel to his name. He would go on to become one of the greatest intellectuals of his generation, the last of the renaissance men. Werther at the time of his death (presumably in his mid-twenties) had accomplished nothing and showed no signs of doing so, even had he not met Lotte and ended his life so young. Finally, an even more obvious contrast exists; whatever sorrows goethe endured due to his own ill-fated love, he was able in the end to pick up the pieces and move on to make an extraordinary life for himself. Werther could move on only by ending his life. Still, i do not feel that goethe intended Werther as an object for contempt or ridicule.
A reader might offer agree with my very unflattering depiction of Werther, yet simply see the novel as the product of a young author every bit as immature and self-absorbed as his protagonist. However, even without considering the towering intellect goethe would soon prove himself to be, many hints can be found that this is not the case. Auden points to the character of Albert as noteworthy. If he truly wished for us to admire werther, one would expect goethe to demonize albert, yet he does no such thing. Albert is a good-natured, even-tempered fellow, perhaps not much of a romantic but to all appearances genuinely in love with Lotte, as she is with him. He is extraordinarily patient and kind to werther even though he must realize that Werther's intention is quite literally to steal his wife. Only after months of Werther's constant presence does he begin to lose patience, and even then he cannot bring himself to banish Werther from his home forever or even to seriously scold Lotte. Such behavior borders on amazing given the social mores of the time.
And here we come to the most damning indictment of all. Werther brings enormous suffering to lotte over the course of the novel and never gives the slightest consideration to the effect his behavior is having hotel upon her. Surely a mature lover would at least stop to wonder at some point whether Lotte might be genuinely happy and satisfied with Albert and if it might be time to exit the scene for her sake. Werther does no such thing, really preferring to wallow in his own self-pity and doing his best to pull Lotte into the mire with him. His suicide letters go beyond the almost pathological self-absorption he has displayed up to that point and cross into active vindictiveness. Werther petulantly wants to hurt Lotte, and hurt her deeply, for having rejected his love. The last moments of his life are filled not with poetic tragedy but with the most extreme pettiness.
Like everyone else, lotte exists for Werther only in relation to himself and for his pleasure. Werther's "love" for Lotte is much more intense but just as shallow as his affection for the village children. If he is in love with anything, it is with the idea of romantic love itself. Poetry and moonlit walks are wonderful, but a deep relationship requires much more and Werther is completely unable to make that leap. Ironically, lotte, even though considerably younger than Werther, is much more emotionally mature than him and recognizes Werther's shortcomings. She is never seriously tempted to replace the steady, quiet affection of Albert with Werther 's tempestuous obsession. This is not to say that Lotte has no feelings for Werther. She obviously does and probably enjoys the attention lavished upon her. As Werther's feelings grow stronger, she begins to pity him and is too kind-hearted to make a clean break of their relationship - until Werther definitively crosses the bounds of propriety, at which point she suffers considerably but nevertheless knows where her loyalty lies.
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Werther is incapable of empathizing with others. The rustic country-folk he meets are delightful little baubles for his amusement. He makes grand (if rather condescending) gestures toward their homework simple, idyllic lifestyle and passes out pennies he will certainly never miss to the children, but never relates to them on anything but the most superficial level. His pride is so immense that he makes a disaster of a simple social occasion at count.'s dwelling and proceeds to quit a potentially promising diplomatic career rather than even try to patch up the situation. Yet perhaps Werther should to be redeemed in ours eyes by his heartfelt love for Lotte?
Alas, he deserves no such consideration. For all his pretentious discussion of Homer and Ossian and. The vicar of wakefield with Lotte, his affection for her has all the depth of the average teenage crush. She is the focal point of his life throughout most of the novel, yet we never even get a clear picture of who she really is, only florid descriptions of her as a sort of mystical, divine being. None of the deep, abiding human connection which characterizes true love is to be found here.
Biographers have stated that goethe was himself near suicide at one point, but (thankfully for posterity) pulled back from the brink. Werther perhaps served as a catharsis of sorts for goethe, allowing him to regain perspective and stability. Yet although the novel is immediately recognizable as the work of a young man, its author is capable of insights which completely elude its protagonist. Goethe survived and presumably learned from his ordeal, while werther did not. Who is Werther really when we look past his gallons of tears and his flights of romantic ecstasy?
Auden calls him a "horrid little monster" ( xi ) and this harsh description is closer to the truth than the tragic hero werther doubtless imagined himself. He is the quintessential son of bourgeois privilege, a flaccid young man who has no knowledge of hardship or responsibility. Worse, werther is a hypocrite. He spends the bulk of the novel idling away his days in the countryside, thoughtlessly spending the money of his successful family even as he disparages the sobriety and hard work which produced. He rails against class distinctions during his brief period of gainful employment with the envoy, claiming that "actual rank does not matter at all and that he who occupies the top very rarely plays the chief role" (83 yet treats his servant boy, whom. He fancies himself a genius deserving of special treatment by society, yet produces not a single finished work of art or literature during his entire lifetime. He criticizes those who are prone to "bad moods" (38 then torments the girl he allegedly loves through his own moodiness. Werther is an egomaniac. Everything in his world - and it is literally "his" world - exists for him only in relation to its effect on him.
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But what were goethe's true intentions in writing his book? Did he truly british see his Werther as someone to be sympathized with, admired, perhaps (God forbid) even emulated? I believe that a careful reading. Werther reveals a much subtler work than its legions of lovelorn readers ever perceived. Although the conflating of an artist's life with his work is always dangerous, certain parts. Werther seem to have been drawn from goethe's own experience. While attending the law courts at Wetzler in 1773, goethe fell passionately into an unrequited love for a young lady with a name familiar to readers of his book - charlotte.
When I look from my window at the distant hills, and behold the morning sun breaking through the mists, and illuminating the country around, which is still wrapped in silence, whilst the soft stream winds gently through the willows, which have shed their leaves; when. Oftentimes do i then bend my knee to the earth, and implore god for the blessing of tears, as the desponding labourer in some scorching climate prays for the dews of heaven to moisten his parched corn. The sorrows of young Werther: a study in Adolescence. The sorrows of young Werther : a study in Adolescence, by jimmy maher, johann Wolfgang pdf von goethe's. The sorrows of young Werther caused an international sensation upon its publication in 1774. The novel was embraced enthusiastically by a generation of young people who found in it an expression, and perhaps a vindication, of their feelings of heartbreak and isolation. Some unfortunate souls even followed Werther's example to the morbid extreme, killing themselves with a copy of the book in their hands. There is no reason to believe that these readers took the novel as anything other than what it initially appears to be, a straightforward tale of a tragic, destructive love.
wretched. If I were whimsical, i might blame the weather, or an acquaintance, or some personal disappointment, for my discontented mind; and then this insupportable load of trouble would not rest entirely upon myself. I feel it too sadly; i am alone the cause of my own woe, am I not? Truly, my own bosom contains the source of all my pleasure. Am I not the same being who once enjoyed an excess of happiness, who at every step saw paradise open before him, and whose heart was ever expanded towards the whole world? And this heart is now dead; no sentiment can revive. My eyes are dry; and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence of soft tears, wither and consume my brain. I suffer much, for I have lost the only charm of life: that active, sacred power which created worlds around me,—it is no more.
Sometimes I dont understand how another can love her, is allowed to love her, since i love her so completely myself, so intensely, so fully, grasp nothing, know nothing, have nothing but her! I possess so much, but my love for her absorbs it all. I possess so much, but without her I have nothing. One hundred times have i been on the point of embracing her. What a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing before us, and yet not dare to lay hold offer of it! And laying hold is the most natural of human instincts. Do not children touch everything they see?
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Presented by, authorama, public Domain books, i review 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. november 22 november. the editor to the reader. And when I look around the apartment where i now am,—when I see charlottes apparel lying before me, and Alberts writings, and all those articles of furniture which are so familiar to me, even to the very inkstand which i am using,—when I think what. My friends esteem me; i often contribute to their happiness, and my heart seems as if it could not beat without them; and yet—if I were to die, if I were to be summoned from the midst of this circle, would they feel—or how long. Yes, such is the frailty of man, that even there, where he has the greatest consciousness of his own being, where he makes the strongest and most forcible impression, even in the memory, in the heart of his beloved, there also he must perish,—vanish,—and that. I could tear open my bosom with vexation to think how little we are capable of influencing the feelings of each other. No one can communicate to me those sensations of love, joy, rapture, and delight which I do not naturally possess; and though my heart may glow with the most lively affection, i cannot make the happiness of one in whom the same warmth is not.