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Kære ven, liberalisterne er frihedens værste fiender. Under absolutismen trives åndsfriheden og tankefriheden bedst; det viste sig i Frankrig, senere i Tyskland og nu i Rusland.

Skulde det ikke være gørligt at få en tidsmæssig lovgivning i literære sager hjemme? Loven beskytter laxen i vore elve og vildtet på fjeldeme; forfatterne derimot synes man at sætte i klasse med rovdyrene; man gør sit bedste for at udryde dem.

Ikke mange sønner ligner sine fedre; de fleste er verre, men noen få er bedre

‘He’s a going out with the tide,’ said Mr. Peggotty to me, behind his [i.e. Mr Barkis's] hand.

My eyes were dim and so were Mr. Peggotty’s; but I repeated in a whisper, ‘With the tide?’

‘People can’t die, along the coast,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘except when the tide’s pretty nigh out. They can’t be born, unless it’s pretty nigh in – not properly born, till flood. He’s a going out with the tide. It’s ebb at half-arter three, slack water half an hour. If he lives till it turns, he’ll hold his own till past the flood, and go out with the next tide.’

We remained there, watching him, a long time – hours. What mysterious influence my presence had upon him in that state of his senses, I shall not pretend to say; but when he at last began to wander feebly, it is certain he was muttering about driving me to school.

‘He’s coming to himself,’ said Peggotty.

Mr. Peggotty touched me, and whispered with much awe and reverence. ‘They are both a-going out fast.’

‘Barkis, my dear!’ said Peggotty.

‘C. P. Barkis,’ he cried faintly. ‘No better woman anywhere!’

‘Look! Here’s Master Davy!’ said Peggotty. For he now opened his eyes.

I was on the point of asking him if he knew me, when he tried to stretch out his arm, and said to me, distinctly, with a pleasant smile: ‘Barkis is willin’!’

And, it being low water, he went out with the tide.

[..] los curas son las únicas personas a quienes todo el mundo llama padre, menos sus hijos, que los llaman tíos.

Los chicos y los animales quieren a quien los quiere.

The mill which had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh, was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal, among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil.

Mr Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has got to the end of a bottle

Dagens attenåringer, hva vet de om Aksel Sandemose? Så godt som ingenting. De fleste har ikke hørt om ham. Noen husker ham kanskje, på grunn av Janteloven. På en ironisk måte er den gjeldende for vår tid. De som leser første bud, Du skal ikke tro at du er noe, vil med stor selvfølgelighet tenke: Selvsagt er jeg noe.

Forutsetningen for å uttrykke seg eksakt, er at man tenker eksakt. En forfatter lever av å tenke og å uttrykke seg eksakt. Ellers får han manuskriptene sine i retur. Våre ansatte i rettsvesenet lever av å uttrykke seg mest mulig upresist og diffust. Slik de fleste journalister lever av ikke å kunne skrive.