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... Man's love is a course of drill. And we submit to it; even those whom no one loves submit—contemptible weaklings that we are!" She rose from her … - Jens Peter Jacobsen
" "... Man's love is a course of drill. And we submit to it; even those whom no one loves submit—contemptible weaklings that we are!"
She rose from her recumbent position and looked threateningly across at Niels.
"If I were beautiful—oh, I mean bewitchingly beautiful, lovelier than any woman that ever lived, so that all who saw me were smitten, as if by magic, with the anguish of unquenchable love—how I should compel them by the power of my beauty to adore, not their traditional, bloodless ideal, but me, myself, as I lived and moved, every single inch of me, every corner of my being and every spark of my nature!
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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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Additional quotes by Jens Peter Jacobsen
Hvem veed? maaske man tager fejl, maaske Ens Forstand, Ens Instinkt, Ens Sandser, med al deres dagslyse Klarhed, dog fører En vild, maaske det netop gjælder om at have det uforstandige Mod at følge den Haabets Lygtemand, som brænder over Ens Lidenskabers attraasvangre Gjæring. Det er først naar man har hørt Afgjørelsens Dør slaa i, at Vishedens jernkolde Kløer graver sig ind i Ens Bryst for langsomt, langsomt at samle sig i Ens Hjærte om den nervefine Traad af Haab, hvori Ens Lykkeverden hænger, saa skjæres Traaden over, saa falder det, den bar, saa knuses det, saa kommer Fortvivlesens Skrig skarpt gjennem Tomheden.
I Tvivl fortvivler der Ingen.
Haven't you noticed that we women daydream infinitely less than you men? We can't anticipate pleasure in our imagination or keep suffering out our lives with some imaginary consolation.Whatever is,is.Imagintion! It's so paltry!Yes,when you've grown older,as I have,you occasionally make do with the poor comedy of the imagination.
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