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A dreary sense of loneliness came over him as he realized how everything he had brought with him from home and from the old days seemed to fall away … - Jens Peter Jacobsen
" "A dreary sense of loneliness came over him as he realized how everything he had brought with him from home and from the old days seemed to fall away from him and let him go his own way, forgotten and forsaken. The door to the past was barred, and he stood outside, empty-handed and alone; whatever he needed and desired he must win for himself — new friends and new shelter, new affections and new memories.
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About Jens Peter Jacobsen
Jens Peter Jacobsen (7 April 1847 – 30 April 1885) was a Danish novelist, poet, and scientist, in Denmark often just written as "J. P. Jacobsen". He began the naturalist movement in Danish literature and was a part of the Modern Breakthrough.
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J.Jacobsen
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Additional quotes by Jens Peter Jacobsen
He had reached the point where he had to choose, for when first youth is past — early or late in accordance with each person's individuality — then, early or late, dawns the day when Resignation comes to us as a temptress, luring us to forego the impossible and be content. And Resignation has much in her favor; for how often have not the idealistic aspirations of youth been beaten back, its enthusiasms been shamed, its hopes laid waste! The ideals, the fair and beautiful, have lost nothing of their radiance, but they no longer walk here among us as in the early days of our youth.
To learn is as beautiful as to live. Do not be afraid to lose yourself in minds greater than your own. Do not sit brooding anxiously over your own individuality or shut yourself out from influences that draw you powerfully for fear that they may sweep you along and submerge your innermost pet peculiarities in their mighty surge. Never fear. The individuality that can be lost in the sifting and reshaping of a healthy development is only a flaw; it is a branch grown in the dark, which is distinctive only so long as it retains its sickly pallor. And it is by this sound growth in yourself that you must live. Only the sound can grow great.
The flowers growing from that soil are made of
cotton cloth; they don't even grow, they are taken from the head and stuck in the heart,
because the heart has no flowers of its own. That is exactly what I envy in the young girl:
everything about her is genuine, she does not fill the goblet of her love with the makeshift
of imagination. Do not suppose, because her love is shot through and shadowed over by
imagined pictures and again pictures in a great, teeming vagueness, that she cares more
for those images than for the earth she walks upon. It is only that all her senses and
instincts and powers are reaching out for love everywhere — everywhere, without ever
feeling weary.
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