Likevel var ingenting enkelt. Han ville ikke leve. Men han visste ikke om han ville dø av den grunn. Håpet hadde bare forsvunnet. Bare skammen var igjen, og det hamrende sinnet som ikke lenger var annet enn en imploderende kraft, et sverd som ble vendt innover, og han orket ikke mer. Han holdt det ikke ut.

Johannes Forsell løp så det dunket i tinningene, og i tankene hans drønnet et helt liv. Men ingenting av det – ikke engang de lykkeligste stundene – bar med seg den minste strime av lys. Han forsøkte å tenke på Becka og sønnene. Men det eneste som dukket opp hos ham, var skuffelsen og skammen i øynene deres, og da han langt borte, som fra en annen verden, hørte fuglene, fremsto de som uforståelige for ham. Hvordan kunne noen synge eller ha lyst til å leve?

and John introduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before.” Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she had never in her life thought him handsome.

and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together.

Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said.

Du snakker om hvor meget barna skylder sine foreldre. Det er vel sin mor, Du mener, for jeg har aldri merket at Du syntes vi skyldte far noe. Jeg vil si Deg at jeg synes foreldrene skylder sine barn meget mer. Barnene har ikke bedt om å bli satt inn i verden, og det er heller ikke av hensyn til barnenes fornøyelse at de blir til.

Jeg liker ikke folk. Jeg liker ikke det de er. Jeg liker ikke det de gjør. Jeg liker ikke det de sier.

TRØST

Tar jeg til tårene, hopper
du straks opp i fanget mitt
og slikker ansiktet reint,

med en slik nøyaktighet
at en skulle tro det gjaldt
ditt eget skitne rumpehull.

RESTER

Lukten av bikkja i pleddet
i stolen er forduftet.

Sender en melding til hun
jeg elsker: Ikke svar når
jeg ringer.

Ringer til signalet opphører.
Stemmen hennes ber meg
legge igjen en beskjed.

I bakgrunnen høres
tre bjeff.

Varmeflaska
i fotenden av senga
har kald snute.

CUSTOMER: Do you have this children's book I've heard about? It's supposed to be very good. It's called ‘Lionel Richie and the Wardrobe.’

My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep!

Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my fellow men;

I shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only consolation—deep, dark, deathlike solitude.

Live, and be happy, and make others so.

On the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said playfully, "I have a pretty present for my Victor—tomorrow he shall have it." And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy, and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil, I have no friend, Margaret:

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exeeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.

Øystein Eikeland hadde et enkelt liv. Han stod opp. Eller ikke.