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sanchopanza 's review for:
The Sorrows of Young Werther
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Goethe wrote this when he was 24 years in 5 and half weeks. Wow! I've just read this book, I don't know if anything I'm blabbering here will even form a meaningful english sentence in any sense; such is the state this book has left me in. I can't bring myself to write anything coherent that justifies just how much beauty there is in these pages, the sweet spring mornings, beautiful valleys and linden trees, the the old pastor's family, the magnificent elegance & beauty of Lotte and her black eyes, and all of this seen through the perspective of our sensitive, passionate young Werther. Goethe paints an unforgettable picture of Werther's sensibilities and his world in the reader's mind that leaves you devastated when his despair strengthens and everything that once seemed to be so full of beauty, turns gloomy and melancholic as trees get hacked down, a peasant boy turns murderer and our werther becomes increasingly obsessive and delusional about getting Lotte for his own when she's already married. His passion burns your heart like a fever.
SEPTEMBER 6, 2020
Oh, poor Werther! Why do you have to be so passionate and restless! To see you, who sees such beauty in the nature, come to this fatal end breaks my heart. You are made well aware of the ugliness in the world when those aristocrats discriminated you in the Count's party, when you were not valued by your stupid ambassador and you've found no light of hope and solace in its dark cruelty. If only you've looked for support in Wilhelm or your mother, not in Homer & Ossian, not in the valleys of Wahlheim that you describe with such passion, not in the silhouette of Lotte in your room who is more beautiful than Albert's Charlotte could ever be (for which you might get angry with me but it's true). But I know, without that fervent passion, what would you be, but just the ordinary person whom you've grumbled about so much. How can I convince a person who believes "What I know anyone can know, my heart is only mine."; how can I stop you when you know the ridiculousness of your actions "I laugh at my own heart and do it's will." and is well aware of the destruction it's going to cause.
You, whose mind has become so dear to me throughout the course of Book one, falling apart like that, to find that there is nothing except Lotte that can save you from succumbing to the terrors of a life that is otherwise devoid of meaning, has torn me apart and ruined this weekend. Look at what has become of you because of this consuming obsession! Read those early letters you've sent to Wilhelm before that fateful ball, maybe that can help you realise the person you once were. From spending lovely time at that well just outside the town and taking a trip down the valley that you've described as a paradise, to wishing Albert was dead and defending a convicted murderer just because you understand his unrequited love, how far you've fallen my friend by giving into your romantic delusions. I can feel the torment of your tempestuous heart, it moves me to tears but I can't understand your actions. How much sorrow you've caused yourself, Lotte and millions of your readers! Why didn't your dear friend Wilhelm hop on his horse, ride to that place and slap you ? why didn't he read the signs when you were playfully pointing an unloaded pistol to your head, when you were talking about biting open a vein to become free and saying all these dreadful things! Wait. Is he just an imaginary friend you've cooked up ? If not, I blame him for this mess. He must be up there in the ranking, fighting for the top spot as one of the worst friends in the history of literature.
SEPTEMBER 6, 2020
Oh, poor Werther! Why do you have to be so passionate and restless! To see you, who sees such beauty in the nature, come to this fatal end breaks my heart. You are made well aware of the ugliness in the world when those aristocrats discriminated you in the Count's party, when you were not valued by your stupid ambassador and you've found no light of hope and solace in its dark cruelty. If only you've looked for support in Wilhelm or your mother, not in Homer & Ossian, not in the valleys of Wahlheim that you describe with such passion, not in the silhouette of Lotte in your room who is more beautiful than Albert's Charlotte could ever be (for which you might get angry with me but it's true). But I know, without that fervent passion, what would you be, but just the ordinary person whom you've grumbled about so much. How can I convince a person who believes "What I know anyone can know, my heart is only mine."; how can I stop you when you know the ridiculousness of your actions "I laugh at my own heart and do it's will." and is well aware of the destruction it's going to cause.
You, whose mind has become so dear to me throughout the course of Book one, falling apart like that, to find that there is nothing except Lotte that can save you from succumbing to the terrors of a life that is otherwise devoid of meaning, has torn me apart and ruined this weekend. Look at what has become of you because of this consuming obsession! Read those early letters you've sent to Wilhelm before that fateful ball, maybe that can help you realise the person you once were. From spending lovely time at that well just outside the town and taking a trip down the valley that you've described as a paradise, to wishing Albert was dead and defending a convicted murderer just because you understand his unrequited love, how far you've fallen my friend by giving into your romantic delusions. I can feel the torment of your tempestuous heart, it moves me to tears but I can't understand your actions. How much sorrow you've caused yourself, Lotte and millions of your readers! Why didn't your dear friend Wilhelm hop on his horse, ride to that place and slap you ? why didn't he read the signs when you were playfully pointing an unloaded pistol to your head, when you were talking about biting open a vein to become free and saying all these dreadful things! Wait. Is he just an imaginary friend you've cooked up ? If not, I blame him for this mess. He must be up there in the ranking, fighting for the top spot as one of the worst friends in the history of literature.