Bokelskere.no

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of though
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

Å, dette tomrommet! dette forferdelige tomrommet som jeg føler inne i brystet! Ofte tenker jeg: om bare du en gang, en eneste gang kunne trykke henne til ditt hjerte, da ville hele dette tomrommet være fylt!

Nu vil hun maaskee have langt vanskeligere ved at glemme ham. Hun kom ikke til at skrige, det er Ulykken. Skrig maa der til, det er godt, ligesom at der kommer blod ved en Constusion. Man maa lade en Pige skrige, saa har hun bagefter Intet at skrige for, men glemmer hurtigen.

Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,

Will whisper, Our meeting we yet may renew:
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow's represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love's last adieu!

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance;
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.

Karakteristisk for meg er et helt uhyggelig følsomt renslighetsinstinkt slik at jeg oppfatter nærheten eller – hva sier jeg? – det innerste, 'innvollene' i enhver sjel fysiologisk, ja lukter dem.

Begge har en gang kastet et gjennomtrengende blikk inn i tingenes hjerte. De har erkjent dem, og det føles ekkelt å handle. For deres handling forandrer intet i tingenes evige vesen, og de føler det latterlig eller forsmedelig at noen tiltror dem å bringe på rett kjøl igjen en verden som er gått av lage. Erkjennelsen dreper handlingen. Til handling hører illusjonenes slør.

(Nietzsche om Hamlet og det dionysiske menneske)

lady through whose profound and fragile lips
the sweet small clumsy feet of April came
into the ragged meadow of my soul

Cat! who hast pass'd thy grand cliacteric,
How many mice and rats hast in thy days
Destroy'd? - How many tit bits stolen? Gaze
With those bright languid segments green, and prick
Those velvet ears - but pr'ythee do not stick
Thy latent talons in me - and upraise
Thy gentle mew - and tell me all thy frays
Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

They have been eating muffins. That looks like repentance.

Let the mad poets say whate'er they please
Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses,
There is not such a treat among them all,
Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,
As a real woman, lineal indeed
From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

Jeg er for nysgjerrig, for spørrende, for overmodig til å nøye meg med et grovt svar. Gud er et grovt svar, en taktløshet mot oss tenkere –, i grunnen også et grovt forbud mot oss: dere skal ikke tenke!

Det var omtrent da han ble kald rundt livet, at han avdekket sitt ansikt – han var nemlig tildekket – og sa – det var det siste han ytret:
«Kriton, jeg skylder Asklepios en hane. Betal dere min gjeld, og glem det ikke.»