We have not made the Revolution, the Revolution has made us.
The breath of an aristocrat is the death rattle of freedom.
Interpretation
What this quote means
This quote suggests that the actions or attitudes of the privileged can threaten the freedom of others.
Georg Buchner's quote reflects on the relationship between social classes and freedom, indicating that the elite's dominance and their way of life can stifle the liberties of the common people. The term 'breath of an aristocrat' symbolizes the influence and power wielded by the privileged, which can lead to oppression and ultimately the demise of freedom for the less fortunate. It challenges us to consider how power dynamics shape our realities and the importance of safeguarding freedom against the encroachments of authority.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
This quote can be used in a debate about social justice and inequality.
More from Georg Buchner
All quotes βThe death clock is ticking slowly in our breast, and each drop of blood measures its time, and our life is a lingering fever.
Raise your eyes and count the small gang of your oppressors who are only strong through the blood they suck from you and through your arms which you lend them unwillingly.
Similar quotes
What is repugnant to every human being is to be reckoned always as a member of a class and not as an individual person.
They were watching, out there past men's knowing, where stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.
But how awful would that be? How terrible to live surrounded by the stark, sharp, hollowness of things that simply were enough?
We all stand on the shoulders of our ancestors. We're in a relay race, relying on the financial and human capital of our parents and grandparents. Blacks were shackled for the early part of that relay race, and although many of the fetters have come off, whites have developed a huge lead.
Modern bourgeois society with its relations of production, of exchange, and of property, a society that has conjured up such gigantic means of production and of exchange, is like the sorcerer, who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells.
As for myself: I had come to the conclusion that there was nothing sacred about myself or any human being, that we were all machines, doomed to collide and collide and collide. For want of anything better to do, we became fans of collisions. Sometimes I wrote well about collisions, which meant I was a writing machine in good repair. Sometimes I wrote badly, which meant I was a writing machine in bad repair. I no more harbored sacredness than did a Pontiac, a mousetrap, or a South Bend Lathe.