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Selma Lagerlöf Books

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“There was one of the people of that time too, who had opened her soul to the spirit with the eyes of ice. He sat by one of them, keeping watch at the source of action, smiling scornfully at evil and good, fathoming everything, judging nothing, investigating, searching, picking apart, paralysing the movements of the heart and the force of thought by smiling scornfully without return. The lovely Marianne carried the spirit of self-observation within her. She felt his eyes of ice and scornful smile follow every step, every word. Her life had turned into a play, where he was the only spectator. She was no longer a person: she did not suffer, she did not rejoice, she did not love, she performed the role of the lovely Marianne Sinclaire, and self-observation sat with staring eyes of ice and diligent, disassembling fingers and watched her perform. She was divided into two halves. Pale, unsympathetic, and scornful, one half of herself sat and watched how the other half acted, and never did the peculiar spirit that picked apart her being have a word of feeling or sympathy.”

LonelinessSelf EsteemSelf Observation
Book:Gösta Berling's Saga
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“Jag tänkte, att om detta och allt annat, som människor hade upprättat på denna jorden, hade fått finnas kvar, så skulle den vara alldeles uppfylld av härlighet. För man ser vid varje steg, som man tar där ute, hur obeskrivligt grant där har varit. Men så kom jag att tänka på att om allt detta hade funnits kvar, så hade vi, som nu levde, ingenting att ta oss till, för då behövdes inte vårt arbete.”

TimeNewOldBuild
Book:Jerusalem
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“La cachucha, is that for us, maestro? Will it be danced across the tottering floorboards of the cavaliers' wing, between cramped walls, blackened with smoke and greasy with grime, under its low ceiling? Curse you, the way you play! La cachucha, is that for us, for us cavaliers? Outside the snowstorm howls. Do you mean to teach the snowflakes to dance in rhythm, are you playing for the light-footed children of the blizzard? Female bodies, which tremble under the pulse beat of hot blood, small sooty hands, which have thrown aside the cooking pot to grasp the castanets, naked feet under tucked-up skirts, yard coated with flakes of marble, crouching gypsies with bagpipe and tambourine, Moorish arcades, moonlight and black eyes, do you have those, maestro? If not, let the fiddle rest! Cavaliers are drying their wet clothes by the fire. Should they swirl around in their tall boots with iron-shod heels and thumb-thick soles? They have waded through the ell-deep snow the whole day to reach the bear's winter lair. Do you think they should dance in their wet, steaming homespun clothes, with the shaggy bruin as a partner? Evening sky, glittering with stars, red roses in dark female hair, tormenting sweetness in the evening air, untaught grave in the movements, love rising out of the earth, raining from the sky, hovering in the air, do you have this, maestro? If not, why force us to long for such things? Cruelest of men, are you sounding the attack for a tethered warhorse? Rutger von Orneclou is lying in his bed, imprisoned by gout pains. Spare him the torment of sweet memories, maestro! He too has worn a sombrero and a gaudy hairnet, he too has owned a velvet jacket and a sash with a dagger tucked in it. Spare old Orneclou, maestro!”

AgeMusicSadnessDancePast Times
Book:Gösta Berling's Saga
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“And while Marianne was looking at herself with all those staring eyes of ice, all original feelings insider her died. She was lying there, pretending to be sick; she was lying there, pretending to be unhappy, pretending to be in love, pretending to be vengeful. She was all of that, and yet it was only pretend. Everything turned to pretense and unreality under the eyes of ice that were watching her, while they in turn were watched by a pair behind them, who were watched by another pair in an infinite perspective.”

HateFearSelf Awareness
Book:Gösta Berling's Saga
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“... I see the green earth covered with the works of man or with the ruins of men’s work. The pyramids weigh down the earth, the tower of Babel has pierced the sky, the lovely temples and the gray castles have fallen into ruins. But of all those things which hands have built, what hasn’t fallen nor ever will fall? Dear friends, throw away the trowel and mortarboard! Throw your masons’ aprons over your heads and lie down to build dreams! What are temples of stone and clay to the soul? Learn to build eternal mansions of dreams and visions!”

MenSoulDreamHandsEarthLyingFallVisionSkyEternalBuiltStonesGreenDearLovelyRuinsFallenTemplesCoveredGrayTowersClayCastlesPyramidsMansionsDear FriendMasonsGreen EarthBabelApronsTower Of Babel
Author:Selma Lagerlöf
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“Have you ever seen a child sitting on its mother’s knee listening to fairy stories? As long as the child is told of cruel giants and of the terrible suffering of beautiful princesses, it holds its head up and its eyes open; but if the mother begins to speak of happiness and sunshine, the little one closes its eyes and falls asleep with its head against her breast. . . . I am a child like that, too. Others may like stories of flowers and sunshine; but I choose the dark nights and sad destinies.”

IfsMayChildrenLittlesLongStoriesEyeBeautifulMotherNightSufferingFallSpeakDarkDestinyFlowerListeningTerribleSittingKneesGiantsFairyBreastsSunshinePrincessDark NightHeads UpFairy Stories
Author:Selma Lagerlöf
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“If dead things love, if earth and water distinguish friends from enemies, I should like to possess their love. I should like the green earth not to feel my step as a heavy burden. I should like her to forgive that she for my sake is wounded by plough and harrow, and willingly to open for my dead body.”

IfsFeelsShouldBodyEarthWaterStepsEnemyGreenForgivingSakeBurdenHeavyWoundedLike HerGreen EarthHeavy Burdens
Book:The Story of Gösta Berling
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