Danish writer
Karen von Blixen-Finecke (17 April 1885 – 7 September 1962) was a Danish author; born Karen Christence Dinesen, she is also known under her pen name Isak Dinesen.
From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Pen Names:
Tania Blixen
•
Isak Dinesen
•
Pierre Andrézel
•
Osceola
Alternative Names:
Karen von Blixen-Finecke
From Wikidata (CC0)
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The Kikuyu, when left to themselves, do not bury their dead, but leave them above ground for the hyenas and vultures to deal with. The custom had always appealed to me, I thought that it would be pleasant thing to be laid out to the sun and the stars, and to be so promptly, neatly, and openly picked and cleansed; to be made one with Nature and become a common component of a landscape.
"A história de um galante
"Sempre pensei que é uma injustiça para a mulher não ter estado nunca sozinha no mundo. Adão pôde, por um tempo, muito ou pouco, caminhar sobre uma terra jovem e serena, entre os animais, na posse inteira da sua alma, e a maioria dos homens nasce ainda com a memória desse tempo. Mas a pobre Eva, essa, já o encontrou a ele, reclamando-a para si, no momento em que abriu os olhos para o mundo. E isto nunca perdoou a mulher ao Criador: ela sente-se com o direito a reaver para si própria esse tempo no Paraíso. Só que, para sua pouca sorte, ao perseguir-se um tempo já passado, sempre o apanhamos de raspão e pelo avesso.
"Hard and cruel though it may seem," said the Cardinal, "yet we, who hold our high office as keepers and watchmen to the story, may tell you, verily, that to its human characters there is salvation in nothing else in the universe. If you tell them — you compassionate and accommodating human readers — that they may bring their distress and anguish before any other authority, you will be cruelly deceiving and mocking them. For within our whole universe the story only has authority to answer that cry of heart of its characters, that one cry of heart of each of them: 'Who am I?"
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Up at Meru I saw a young Native girl with a bracelet on, a leather strap two inches wide, and embroidered all over with very small turquoise-coloured beads which varied a little in colour and played in green, light blue, and ultramarine. It was an extraordinarily live thing; it seemed to draw breath on her arm, so that I wanted it for myself, and made Farah buy it from her. No sooner had it come upon my own arm than it gave up the ghost. It was nothing now, a small, cheap, purchased article of finery. It had been the play of colours, the duet between the turquoise and the 'nègre' - that quick, sweet, brownish black, like peat and black pottery, of the Native's skin - that had created the life of the bracelet.