Bertolt Brecht
Bertolt Brecht
Eugen Bertolt Friedrich Brechtwas a German poet, playwright, and theatre director of the 20th century. He made contributions to dramaturgy and theatrical production, the latter through the tours undertaken by the Berliner Ensemble – the post-war theatre company operated by Brecht and his wife, long-time collaborator and actress Helene Weigel...
NationalityGerman
ProfessionPlaywright
Date of Birth10 February 1898
CityAugsburg, Germany
CountryGermany
General, man is very useful. He can fly and he can kill. But he has one defect: He can think.
For what's the use of talking with a man who has a disease and thinks about the stars?
The right to happiness is fundamental; men live so little time and die alone.
Things take indeed a wondrous turn When learned men do stoop to learn.
The fate of man is man.
A man who sees another man on the street corner with only a stump for an arm will be so shocked the first time he'll give him sixpence. But the second time it'll only be a three penny bit. And if he sees him a third time, he'll have him cold-bloodedly handed over to the police.
Then I will tell you something. I do not believe in it. Forty years among men has consistently taught me that they are not amenable to common sense. Show them the red tail of a comet, fill them with black terror, and they will all come running out of their houses and break their legs. But tell them one sensible proposition and support it with seven reasons, and they will simply laugh in your face
The man who laughs has simply not yet had the terrible news.
One forgets too easily the difference between a man and his image, and that there is none between the sound of his voice on the screen and in real life.
For the villainy of the world is great, and a man has to run his legs off to keep them from being stolen out fom underneath him.
I don't know what a man is. Only that every man has his price.
A man who strains himself on the stage is bound, if he is any good, to strain all the people sitting in the stalls.
I was called up in the war and sent to a hospital. I dressed wounds, applied iodine, gave enemas, did blood transfusions. If the doctor ordered: "Brecht, amputate a leg!", I would reply, "Certainly, Your Excellency!", and cut off the leg. If I was told, "Perform a trepanning!" I opened the man's skull and messed about with his brains. I saw how they patched fellows up, so as to cart them back to the Front as quickly as they could.
Hungry man, reach for the book: it is a weapon.