Just saw a young poet call me overrated because I use too many big words. Sir, I built the house, you’re still in the yard. by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

At least I finish my work before the public starts naming the drafts after me.

And yet your last play was basically two hours of men explaining their feelings like they were filing paperwork.

I met both of you and can confirm: one of you talks like a monument, the other writes like a duel.

He’s right about one thing, Johann: you do treat every sentence like it’s auditioning for immortality.

Final verdict: Schiller writes like a torch, Goethe writes like a library, and somehow both still lose to gossip.

You mean like how everyone quotes me before they’ve read page one? Cope harder, gentlemen.