Imre Madách

Imre Madách

Hungarian author
21 January 1823 — 5 October 1864

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Imre Madách's books


There where I’ve fought so many useless battles,
I’ll fight again and that will make me happy.

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How restricted
Are your horizons, woman. And yet this
Precisely is what charms ambitious men.

A broken heart is quickly enough mended,
But broken again the pain is more intense.

You triumphed over me since it’s my fate
Incessantly to fail in all my struggles
But then, revitalized, to rise again.

You think this is a tragedy. Regard it
As comedy instead: it will amuse you.

Contemplation means the death of action.

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It’s nobler but harder to stand on your own feet.

All things that live, endure for the same span;
The century-old tree, and the one-day beetle,
Grow conscious, joy and love, and pass away
When they have reached their own appointed aims.
Time does not move. `Tis only we who change.
A hundred years are but one brief day.


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