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Eg tar til å le høgt av min eigen vits. Eg sit her åleine og ler. Folk stirer bort på meg. For ein augneblink er eg lykkelig.

Hjartet opnar seg. Hjartet lukkar seg. Hjartet blir mjukt. Hjartet blir hardt. Om hjartet opnar seg på feil tidspunkt eller blir hardt når det burde vere mjukt, er ein i trøbbel. Meir trøbbel er i vente dersom hjartet blir mjukt når det burde vere hardt.

I was always embarrassed by the words sacred, glorious and sacrifice and the expression in vain. We had heard them, sometimes standing in the rain almost out of earshot, so that only the shouted words came through, and had read them, on proclamations that were slapped up by billposters over other proclamations, now for a long time, and I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious had no glory and the sacrifices were like the stockyards at Chicago if nothing was done with the meat except to bury it.

Life isn't hard to manage when you've nothing to lose.

Hvis mine foreldre hadde gitt meg lov til å besøke den egnen jeg var i ferd med å lese om, ville jeg hatt inntrykk av å ta et avgjørende skritt i retning av sannhetens erobring. For om vi føler at vi bestandig er fanger i vår egen, personlig farvede opplevelse av tingene, så er vårt fengsel ikke ubevegelig: vi befinner oss snarere underveis, i en uavlatelig higen efter å komme ut over oss selv, efter å tre i kontakt med omverdenen

Gud hjælpe Poesien, ved Politikens Hjælp sættes den paa Vand og Brød!

When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.

She was alone and still, gazing out to sea; and when she felt his presence and the worship of his eyes her eyes turned to him in quiet sufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness. Long, long she suffered his gaze and then quietly withdrew her eyes from his and bent them towards the stream, gently stirring the water with her foot hither and thither. The first faint noise of gently moving water broke the silence, low and faint and whispering, faint as the bells of sleep; hither and thither, hither and thither: and a faint flame trembled on her cheek.

Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,

That every word doth almost tell my name,

Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?

O know, sweet love, I always write of you,

And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,

Spending again what is already spent

fra sonette 76.

Det er kveld, vår, snart mørkt ute. Kristin ligger inne på rommet sitt og sover. Jonas gleder seg allerede til frokosten, til Margretes brød. For Jonas er dette det gode ekteskap: å glede seg til frokosten. Jonas opplevde mye stort og spennende i sitt liv, og allikevel, om han kunne velge, var det ingenting som kunne måle seg med frokosten sammen med Margrete, hennes brød med villbringebærsyltetøy og et glass melk.

It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.

Principles are the stuff of comedy.

The truth is, I was not cut out to be a seductress. I did not even approve of the word, with its overtones of lacy underwear and French perfume.

Wer den Dichter will verstehen, muß in Dichters Lande gehen.

Mathematicians are like Frenchmen: whatever you say to them they translate into their own language and forthwith it is something entirely different.