1 Fra romaner
The top of his head is bald, with two tufts of gray hair on each side. His small, beady eyes, narrow nose, and hard, straight mouth make him look like a well-brought-up owl.
He is always first at the door of the restaurant, stands aside to let his wife, a tiny woman, like a black mouse, go in, and then comes in himself with a small boy and girl,
dressed like performing poodles, at his heels. When they are at the table he remains standing till his wife is seated and only then the two poodles can perch themselves on their chairs.
He uses no terms of endearment to his family, addresses politely spiteful remarks to his wife, and bluntly tells the kids what he thinks of them. “‘Nicole, you’re behaving quite disgracefully.’
“The little girl is on the brink of tears, which is as it should be. “This morning the small boy was all excitement about the rats, and started saying something on the subject.
“ ‘Philippe, one doesn’t talk of rats at table. For the future I forbid you to use the word.’ “ ‘Your father’s right,’ approved the mouse.
“The two poodles buried their noses in their plates, and the owl acknowledged thanks by a curt, perfunctory nod.
This code of principles covered only a very small circle of contingencies, but then the principles were never doubtful, and Vronsky, as he never went outside that circle,
had never had a moment’s hesitation about doing what he ought to do. These principles laid down as invariable rules: that one must pay a cardsharper,
but need not pay a tailor; that one must never tell a lie to a man, but one may to a woman; that one must never cheat any one, but one may a husband;
that one must never pardon an insult, but one may give one and so on. These principles were possibly not reasonable and not good, but they were of unfailing certainty,
and so long as he adhered to them, Vronsky felt that his heart was at peace and he could hold his head up.
Only quite lately in regard to his relations with Anna, Vronsky had begun to feel that his code of principles did not fully cover all possible contingencies,
and to foresee in the future difficulties and perplexities for which he could find no guiding clue.
Un-Dead, more and more they lose their blood, and by her power over them they come to her;
and so she draw their blood with that so wicked mouth. But if she die in truth, then all cease; the tiny wounds of the throats disappear,
and they go back to their plays unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all,
when this now Un-Dead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor lady whom we love shall again be free.
Instead of working wickedness by night and growing more debased in the assimilation of it by day,
she shall take her place with the other Angels. So that, my friend, it will be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow that sets her free.
To this I am willing; but is there none amongst us who has a better right?
Will it be no joy to think of hereafter in the silence of the night when sleep is not:
“It was my hand that sent her to the stars; it was the hand of him that loved her best;
the hand that of all she would herself have chosen, had it been to her to choose”?
Tell me if there be such a one amongst us?’ We all looked at Arthur.
He saw, too, what we all did, the infinite kindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would restore Lucy to us as a holy,
and not an unholy, memory; he stepped forward and said bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was as pale as snow:—
‘My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I thank you. Tell me what I am to do, and I shall not falter!’ Van Helsing laid a hand on his shoulder,
and said:— ‘Brave lad! A moment’s courage, and it is done. This stake must be driven through her.
It will be a fearful ordeal—be not deceived in that—but it will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more than your pain was great;
from this grim tomb you will emerge as though you tread on air.
Ikke kalder jeg Dig: min, det indseer jeg vel, at Du aldrig har været, og jeg er haardt nok straffet for, at denne Tanke engang forlystede min Sjæl;
og dog kalder jeg Dig: min; min Forfører, min Bedrager, min Fiende, min Morder, min Ulykkes Ophav, min Glædes Grav, min Usaligheds Afgrund.
Jeg kalder Dig: min, og kalder mig: Din, og som det engang smigrede Dit Øre, der stolt bøiede sig til min Tilbedelse,
saa skal det nu lyde som en Forbandelse over Dig, en Forbandelse i al Evighed. Glæd Dig ikke til, at det skulde være min Hensigt at forfølge Dig,
eller at væbne mig med en Dolk, for at ægge Din Spot! fly hvorhen Du vil, jeg er dog Din, drag til Verdens yderste Grændse,
jeg er dog Din, elsk hundrede Andre, jeg er dog Din, ja i Dødens Time er jeg Din. Selv det Sprog, jeg fører mod Dig, maa bevise Dig,
at jeg er Din. Du har formastet Dig til at bedrage et Menneske saaledes, at Du er bleven Alt for mig, saa jeg vilde sætte al min Glæde i at være Din Slavinde,
Din er jeg, Din, Din, Din Forbandelse.
så at de måtte spørge sig selv om hun i det hele taget havde hørt hvad de sagde.
Det hændte også at de fandt hende i køkkenet med albuerne på køkkenbordet og ansigtet mellem hænderne,
helt tabt for verden i studiet af en tyk sort bog, som de mistænkte
for at være en papistisk bønnebog. Eller det kunne også ske at hun sad ubevægelig på den treenede køkkenskammel med de stærke hænder i
skødet og med to vidtåbne sorte øjne som en pythia på sin trefod. I sådanne øjeblikke forstod de at Babette var dyb, langt nede
i hendes sind var der undervandsskær, hvorimellem der gik erindringer, lidenskaber og længsler, som de selv slet intet kendte til.
En lille gysen løb igennem dem, og i deres hjerter tænkte de: hun har måske alligevel været Pétroleuse.
Girls have no idea of handling any situation that calls for nice tact.
I mean to say, Jeeves will tell you that on these occasions the whole thing is to study the psychology of the individual,
and an owl could have seen what old Stoker’s psychology was like. A male owl, that is.
He was one of those fellows who get their backs up the minute they think their nearest and dearest are trying to shove them into anything;
a chap who, as the Bible puts it, if you say Go, he cometh, and if you say Come, he goeth; a fellow, in a word, who, if he came to a door with ‘Push’ on it, would always pull.
with the higher heavenly world, and the roots of our thoughts and feelings are not here but in other worlds.
That is why philosophers say it is impossible on earth to conceive the essence of things.
God took seeds from other worlds and sowed them on this earth, and raised up his garden; and everything that could sprout sprouted,
but it lives and grows only through its sense of being in touch with other mysterious worlds; if this sense is weakened or destroyed in you,
that which has grown up in you dies. Then you become indifferent to life, and even come to hate it. So I think.
ROPER: So now you’d give the Devil benefit of law!
MORE: Yes. What would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?
ROPER: I’d cut down every law in England to do that!
MORE: (Roused and excited) Oh? (Advances on ROPER) And when the last law was down, and
the Devil turned round on you-where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? (He leaves
him) This country’s planted thick with laws from coast to coast-man’s laws, not God’s-and if you
cut them down-and you’re just the man to do it-d’you really think you could stand upright in the
winds that would blow then? (Quietly) Yes, I’d give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety’s
In bed we concocted our plans for the morrow. But to my
surprise and no small concern, Queequeg now gave me to
understand, that he had been diligently consulting Yojo- the name
of his black little god- and Yojo had told him two or three times
over, and strongly insisted upon it everyway, that instead of our
going together among the whaling-fleet in harbor, and in concert
selecting our craft; instead of this, I say, Yojo earnestly enjoined
that the selection of the ship should rest wholly with me, inasmuch
as Yojo purposed befriending us; and, in order to do so, had
already pitched upon a vessel, which, if left to myself, I, Ishmael,
should infallibly light upon, for all the world as though it had
turned out by chance; and in that vessel I must immediately ship
myself, for the present irrespective of Queequeg.
Garcin holding baby-killer Estelle in his manly arms! Make your stakes, everyone. Will
coward Garcin kiss the lady, or won’t he dare? What’s the betting? I’m watching you,
everybody’s watching, I’m a crowd all by myself. Do you hear the crowd? Do you hear
them muttering, Garcin? “Coward!Coward!” —that’s what they’re saying…It’s no use
trying to escape, I’ll never let you go. What do you hope to get from her silly lips?
Forgetfulness? But I shan’t forget you, not I! “It’s I you must convince.” So come to me.
I’m waiting. Come along, now…Look how obedient he is, like a well-trained dog who
comes when his mistress calls. You can’t hold him, and you never will.
GARCIN: Will night never come?
GARCIN: You will always see me?
GARCIN: This bronze. Yes, now’s the moment; I’m looking at this thing on the
mantelpiece, and I understand that I’m in hell. I tell you, everything’s been thoughtout
beforehand. They knew I’d stand at the fireplace stroking this thing of bronze, with all
those eyes intent on me. Devouring me. What? Only two of you? I thought there were
more; many more. So this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were
told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the “burning marl.” Old wives’
tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. HELL IS–OTHER PEOPLE!
Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions.
It is the opium of the people… The abolition of religion as the illusory happiness of the people is the demand for their real happiness….
The criticism of religion is, therefore, in embryo, the criticism of that vale of tears of which religion is the halo….
Criticism has plucked the imaginary flowers on the chain not in order that man shall continue to bear that chain without fantasy or consolation,
but so that he shall throw off the chain and cull the living flower.
is one of those which recent improvements have transformed from top to bottom,-resulting in disfigurement according to some,
and in a transfiguration according to others. The market-gardens, the timber-yards, and the old buildings have been effaced.
To-day, there are brand-new, wide streets, arenas circuses, hippodromes, railway stations, and a prison, Mazas, there; progress, as the reader sees, with its antidote.
Den ene var fuld af griskhed, og den anden ædt op af misundelse. Så for at straffe dem begge,
sagde Jupiter, at de kunne have, hvad de ønskede for sig selv, men kun på betingelse af, at hans nabo fik dobbelt så meget.
Den gerrige mand bad for at have et rum fuld af guld. Som sagt så gjort, men al hans glæde blev vendt til sorg, da han så,
at hans nabo havde to værelser fulde af det ædle metal. Så kom turen til den misundelige mand, der ikke kunne bære at tænke på,
at hans nabo havde nogen glæde overhovedet. Så bad han, at han ville miste et af sine egne øjne, ved hvilket betyder,
at hans kammerat ville blive helt blind.
Moralsk fordærv er sin egen straf.
De spillede hele Dagen og rastede kun for tavse at hugge Æggekage i sig. En Gang var Tabet for Jens Hansens Vedkommende over 300 Kroner.
Det var en Mand, som til daglig studerede en Tiøres Præg paa begge Sider, inden han skilte sig ved den.
Han sad paa Bænken som et ømtaaligt, nerveblottet Saar, opirret til Bunden af menneskelig Brutalitet. Hans Ansigtsmuskler krympede sig i Bitterhed, strammedes af Ondskab.
“Kun hans øjne så alle de tusinde kvaler menneskene har ved deres undergang. Denne verdenssmerte kan han, så at sige, kun udholde ved at se frem til den salighed der venter.”
2 Fra digtsamlinger
That carries weight and always weighs the same
Lay in the hands of others; they were small
And could not hope for help and no help came:
What their foes like to do was done, their shame
Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride
And died as men before their bodies died.
A ragged urchin, aimless and alone,
Loitered about that vacancy; a bird
Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone:
That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third,
Were axioms to him, who’d never heard
Of any world where promises were kept,
Or one could weep because another wept.
And not a word he spoke, for
His beak contained a piece of Brie.
Or, maybe it was Roquefort.
We’ll make it any kind you please —
At all events it was a cheese.
Beneath the tree’s umbrageous limb
A hungry fox sat smiling;
He saw the raven watching him,
And spoke in words beguiling:
“J’admire,” said he, “ton beau plumage!”
(The which was simply persiflage.)
Two things there are, no doubt you know,
To which a fox is used:
A rooster that is bound to crow,
A crow that’s bound to roost;
And whichsoever he espies
He tells the most unblushing lies.
“Sweet fowl,” he said, “I understand
You’re more than merely natty;
I hear you sing to beat the band
And Adelina Patti.
Pray render with your liquid tongue
A bit from Götterdämmerung.”
This subtle speech was aimed to please
The crow, and it succeeded;
He thought no bird in all the trees
Could sing as well as he did.
In flattery completely doused,
He gave the “Jewel Song” from Faust.
But gravitation’s law, of course,
As Isaac Newton showed it,
Exerted on the cheese its force,
And elsewhere soon bestowed it.
In fact, there is no need to tell
What happened when to earth it fell.
I blush to add that when the bird
Took in the situation
He said one brief, emphatic word,
Unfit for publication.
The fox was greatly startled, but
He only sighed and answered, “Tut.”
THE MORAL is: A fox is bound
To be a shameless sinner.
And also: When the cheese comes round
You know it’s after dinner.
But (what is only known to few)
The fox is after dinner, too.
In April one seldom feels cheerful;
Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful;
Clairvoyantes distress me,
Commuters depress me–
Met Stetson and gave him an earful.
She sat on a mighty fine chair,
Sparks flew as she tidied her hair;
She asks many questions,
I make few suggestions–
Bad as Albert and Lil–what a pair!
The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep;
Tiresias fancies a peep–
A typist is laid,
A record is played–
Wei la la. After this it gets deep.
A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot
About birds and his business–the lot,
Which is no surprise,
Since he’d met his demise
And been left in the ocean to rot.
No water. Dry rocks and dry throats,
Then thunder, a shower of quotes
From the Sanskrit and Dante.
Da. Damyata. Shantih.
I hope you’ll make sense of the notes.
Who was too freely moved to tears and thereby
ruined his political career.
Lord Lundy from his earliest years
Was far too freely moved to Tears.
For instance if his Mother said,
“Lundy! It’s time to go to Bed!”
He bellowed like a Little Turk.
Or if his father Lord Dunquerque
Said “Hi!” in a Commanding Tone,
“Hi, Lundy! Leave the Cat alone!”
Lord Lundy, letting go its tail,
Would raise so terrible a wail
As moved His Grandpapa the Duke
To utter the severe rebuke:
“When I, Sir! was a little Boy,
An Animal was not a Toy!”
His father’s Elder Sister, who
Was married to a Parvenoo,
Confided to Her Husband, Drat!
The Miserable, Peevish Brat!
Why don’t they drown the Little Beast?”
Suggestions which, to say the least,
Are not what we expect to hear
From Daughters of an English Peer.
His Grandmamma, His Mother’s Mother,
Who had some dignity or other,
The Garter, or no matter what,
I can’t remember all the Lot!
Said “Oh! That I were Brisk and Spry
To give him that for which to cry!”
(An empty wish, alas! For she
Was Blind and nearly ninety-three).
The Dear Old Butler thought-but there!
I really neither know nor care
For what the Dear Old Butler thought!
In my opinion, Butlers ought
To know their place, and not to play
The Old Retainer night and day.
I’m getting tired and so are you,
Let’s cut the poem into two!
It happened to Lord Lundy then,
As happens to so many men:
Towards the age of twenty-six,
They shoved him into politics;
In which profession he commanded
The Income that his rank demanded
In turn as Secretary for
India, the Colonies, and War.
But very soon his friends began
To doubt is he were quite the man:
Thus if a member rose to say
(As members do from day to day),
“Arising out of that reply . . .!”
Lord Lundy would begin to cry.
A Hint at harmless little jobs
Would shake him with convulsive sobs.
While as for Revelations, these
Would simply bring him to his knees,
And leave him whimpering like a child.
It drove his colleagues raving wild!
They let him sink from Post to Post,
From fifteen hundred at the most
To eight, and barely six–and then
To be Curator of Big Ben!. . .
And finally there came a Threat
To oust him from the Cabinet!
The Duke — his aged grand-sire — bore
The shame till he could bear no more.
He rallied his declining powers,
Summoned the youth to Brackley Towers,
And bitterly addressed him thus–
“Sir! you have disappointed us!
We had intended you to be
The next Prime Minister but three:
The stocks were sold; the Press was squared:
The Middle Class was quite prepared.
But as it is! . . . My language fails!
Go out and govern New South Wales!”
The Aged Patriot groaned and died:
And gracious! how Lord Lundy cried!
Jeg hører Vinterens Stemme;
Thi ogsaa jeg er kun her paa Træk,
Og haver andensteds hjemme.
Jeg vidste længe, jeg skal herfra;
Det Hjærtet ikke betynger,
Og derfor lige glad nu og da
Paa Gjennemreisen jeg synger.
Jeg skulde sjunget lidt meer maaskee –
Maaskee vel ogsaa lidt bedre;
Men mørke Dage jeg maatte see,
Og Storme rev mine Fjædre.
Jeg vilde gjerne i Guds Natur
Med Frihed spændt mine Vinger,
Men sidder fast i mit snevre Buur,
Det allevegne mig tvinger.
Jeg vilde gjerne fra høien Sky
Udsendt de gladere Sange;
Men blive maa jeg for Kost og Ly
En stakkels gjældbunden Fange.
Tidt ligevel til en Smule Trøst
Jeg ud af Fængselet titter,
Og sender stundom min Veemodsrøst
Med Længsel gjennem mit Gitter.
Lyt og, o Vandrer! til denne Sang,
Lidt af din Vei Du hidtræde!
Gud veed, maaske det er sidste Gang
Du hører Livsfangen qvæde.
Mig bæres for, som ret snart i Qvel
At Gitterværket vil briste;
Thi qviddre vil jeg et ømt Farvel;
Maaske det bliver det sidste.
I was carting home a load with manly pride,
When my feet began to stutter and I fell into the gutter,
And a pig came up and lay down by my side.
Then I lay there in the gutter and my heart was all a-flutter,
Till a lady, passing by, did chance to say:
“You can tell a man that boozes by the company he chooses,”
Then the pig got up and slowly walked away.
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
med Grønsvær tækket de gamles Grave;
Henfarne Slægter – forglem dem ej!
I arv de gav dig en ædel Gave.
i Landets Marv
sig ej fornægter.
Bevar din Arv!
Hvad Hånden former er Aandens spor.
Med flint har Oldbonden tømret, kriget.
Hver spån, du finder i Danmarks Jord
er sjæl af dem der har bygget Riget.
Vil selv du fatte
dit Væsens Rod,
skøn på de Skatte,
Men du der søgte mod fremmed Strand,
de gamle lig, som mod Søen stunded,
hver gang du genser det gamle Land,
skal sande, her blev dit Hjerte bundet.
Thi dybe minder
og gammel agt
og milde Kvinder –
hvor har de magt!
er åbenbart en tro, der
bestandigt vil stå højt i pris
blandt gamle idioter
Gammelfar ville helst gå fremad baglæns
Gammelfar vidste skam nok råd,
hvis traktoren skulle gå hen og blive krybbebider.
Glem ikke, at i går er gået.
Lige så klogt det var i december, lige så tosset er det i maj.
DIT råd – MIN risiko!
Gammelfar sparede dem lige lukt ind i skatteplyndring.
Et hus skal ikke styres fra pulterkammeret.
Gammelfar sagde, at det var tiderne, – aldrig, at det var ham!
At kritisere Gammelfar havde kun Gammelfar forstand på.
Forældre er ikke rigtigt noget for yngre.
Netop det, Gammelfar ikke havde haft evner til, skulle sønnen værs’god ha’ lyst til!
Hver generation har SINE problemer. Især med den foregående.
En mand er, hvad han er, – ikke, hvad han var!
Gammelfar indså klart, at de unge åbenbart måtte være forkalkede.
Hellere Dumrian junior end Dumrian senior!
Gud ved, om ikke ”Ungdommelig” betyder for gammel?
Jeg skal nok føre jer rundt Kap Horn! sagde lodsen for Panama kanalen.
Langt ude var Gammelfar i familie med Slendrian.
Det er rigtigt, at man aldrig render sig en staver i livet ved at blive stående!
Så-så-så, unge mand – vent, til du bliver sløvere!
Gammelfar mente, det var begavet at fylde år.
Ældre er det eneste, enhver idiot kan blive!
De unge arvede da afbetalingen af Gammelfars statsgæld.
Næ. I MIN ungdom, – da var jeg yngre!
KORSANG AF YNGRE
Melodi: Forgangen nat vor sultne kat
Erfaringskløgt hos alderdom
er ældre fyldt med skvalder om.
Med al respekt for bedstefar
så tror vi nu nok, at det bedste var
at klare kontroverserne,
der skabtes af halvfjerdserne,
uhindret af forstyrrende
erfaringer fra fyrrerne
med alt dets fortærende Tant,
om ikke en Plet med en Dal og lidt Siv
vort Hjærte i Skjælvinger bandt!
Om ikke vi drog fra det yderste Hav
for bøjet og rynket at staa
og høre de Kluk,
de Mindernes Suk
fra Bækken, vi kyssed som smaa!
Velsignede Land, hvor i Stormvejret bor
et Folk, som er øvet i Savn,
jeg ejed vel aldrig et Gran af din Jord,
som hjemløs jeg kvitted min Stavn.
Du rakte mig ud fra dit stenede Krat
en Høstnat saa kroget en Stav;
naar Staven er brudt
og Livsgangen slut,
kanske du da skjænker en Grav.
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische dein Heiligtum.
Deine Zauber binden wieder,
Was die Mode streng geteilt,
Alle Menschen werden Brüder,
Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.
Wem der grosse Wurf gelungen,
Eines Freundes Freund zu sein,
Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,
Mische seinen Jubel ein!
Ja—wer auch nur eine Seele
Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!
Und wer’s nie gekonnt, der stehle
Weinend sich aus diesem Bund.
Freude trinken alle Wesen
An den Brüsten der Natur,
Alle Guten, all Bösen
Folgen ihrer Rosenspur.
Küsse gab sie uns und Reben,
Einen Freund, geprüft im Tod,
Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,
Und der Cherub steht vor Gott.
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.