She sat up. "I don't know if I can tell you, honey. When you live in New York, you often have the feeling that New York's not the world. I mean this: every time I come home, I feel like I'm coming back to the world, and when I leave Maycomb it's like leaving the world. It's silly. I can't explain it, and what makes it sillier is that I'd go stark raving living in Maycomb."

Det vi var vitne til da Kennedy døde, var fjernsynets triumf

Mrs. Hoyt var den første jeg kan huske som sa at det å kritisere en bestemt amerikansk president ikke var anti-amerikansk; at det å kritisere en bestemt amerikansk politikk ikke var upatriotisk; og at det å ta avstand fra vårt engasjement i en bestemt krig mot kommunistene ikke var det samme som å ta kommunistenes parti. Men disse distinksjonene gikk de fleste av Gravesends borgere hus forbi; det gjør de den dag i dag blant mange av mine forhenværende landsmenn.

This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition, and I believe they were sworn to secrecy. Their talk, however, was the talk of sordid buccaneers: it was reckless without hardihood, greedy without audacity, and cruel without courage; there was not an atom of foresight or of serious intention in the whole batch of them, and they did not seem aware these things are wanted for the work of the world. To tear treasure out of the bowels of the land was their desire, with no more moral purpose at the back of it than there is in burglars breaking into a safe.

'I always ask leave, in the interests of science, to measure the crania of those going out there,' he said.
'And when they come back, too?' I asked.
'Oh, I never see them,' he remarked; 'and, moreover, the changes take place inside, you know.'

And once again, when the river had just increased its flow in the rainy season and made a powerful noise, then said Siddhartha: "Isn't it so, oh friend, the river has many voices, very many voices? Hasn't it the voice of a king, and of a warrior, and of a bull, and of a bird of the night, and of a woman giving birth, and of a sighing man, and a thousand other voices more?"

"So it is," Vasudeva nodded, "all voices of the creatures are in its voice."

"And do you know," Siddhartha continued, "what word it speaks, when you succeed in hearing all of its ten thousand voices at once?"

Happily, Vasudeva's face was smiling, he bent over to Siddhartha and spoke the holy Om into his ear. And this had been the very thing which Siddhartha had also been hearing.

"Everyone gives what he has. The warrior gives strength, the merchant gives merchandise, the teacher teachings, the farmer rice, the fisher fish."

"Yes indeed. And what is it now what you've got to give? What is it that you've learned, what you're able to do?"

"I can think. I can wait. I can fast."

Collective 0-0009 looked upon us, and they smiled.

"So you think you have found a new power," said Collective 0-0009. "Do you think all your brothers think that?"

"No," we answered.

"What is not thought by all men cannot be true," said Collective 0-0009.

"You have worked on this alone?" asked International 1-5537.

"Yes," we answered.

"What is not done collectively cannot be good," said International 1-5537.

(Chapter seven)

We think that there are mysteries in the sky and under the water and in
the plants which grow. But the Council of Scholars has said that there
are no mysteries, and the Council of Scholars knows all things.

(Chapter one)

"Men are queer creatures," I returned. "They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through
politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn't sew on a button or fix one's hair to save their life."

(Chapter twenty-four)

The men were honest, good-natured, respectable, common bushmen farmers. Too friendly to pay a short call, they came and sat for hours yarning about nothing in particular. This bored my gentle mother excessively. She attempted to entertain them with conversation of current literature
and subjects of the day, but her efforts fell flat. She might as well have spoken in French.

(Chapter three)

-- Jeg drar i morgen, sa han.
Ikke noe svar.
-- Vil du kjøpe sauene mine av meg?
-- Nei, men jeg kan drukne dem i en torvgrav for deg.

Så begynte kaffen å dufte i stuen, det var morgenens helligste øyeblikk. I en slik duft glemte man verdens motgang og sjelen ble opplyst av troen på fremtiden

Han erklærte at jeg ikke hørte hjemme i et samfunn hvis grunnleggende regler jeg ikke anerkjente, og at jeg ikke kunne appellere til det menneskelige hjerte hvis elementære reaksjoner jeg var uvitende om.

På vei opp den mørke trappen støtte jeg borti Salamano, naboen min i samme etasje. Han var sammen med hunden sin. De har vært sett sammen i åtte år. Spanielen har en hudsykdom, rødskabb heter det visst, som får den til å miste pelsen og dekker den med pletter og mørke skorper. Etter at de to har levd sammen alene på et lite rom, har det til slutt endt med at gamle Salamano ligner den. Han har rødflammede skorper i ansiktet og gulnet, tynt hår. Hunden på sin side har tatt etter eierens lutende gange, med snuten fremoverbøyd og stiv nakke. De ser ut som de er av samme rase og likevel avskyr de hverandre.

Vi ender med å glemme de detaljene i livet som er til bry eller som er altfor smertefulle. Det er bare å legge seg på ryggen og la seg rolig flyte over dypet, og lukke øynene.

De siste femti årene hadde han ofte vært forbi her, og også i barndommen, da moren tok ham med seg til stormagasinet Printemps litt høyere oppe. Men nå i kveld virket denne byen fremmed. Han hadde gjort seg fri av alt som som ennå kunne binde ham til den, eller så var det byen som hadde forkastet ham.

All men, however highly educated, retain some superstitious inklings.

(Chapter 17)

Although the fire was burning up briskly, she was surprised to see that her visitor still wore his hat and coat, standing with his back to her and staring out of the window at the falling snow in the yard. His gloved hands were clasped behind him, and he seemed to be lost in thought. She noticed that the melting snow that still sprinkled his shoulders dripped upon her carpet. "Can I take your hat and coat, sir?" she said, "and give them a good dry in the kitchen?"

"No," he said without turning.

(Chapter 1)

Og neste gong eg er i nød, skal eg iallfall ikkje nøle med å vende meg til Gud. Han har sanneleg meg uransakelege vegar, ja. Og på nokre av dei skjer det stygge trafikkulukker.