Andersen Christian Quotes

But a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more.

Where words fail, music speaks.

When the bird of the heart begins to sing, too often will reason stop up her ears.

To travel is to live.

To move, to breathe, to fly, to float, To gain all while you give, To roam the roads of lands remote, To travel is to live.

Enjoy life. There's plenty of time to be dead.

Life is like a beautiful melody, only the lyrics are messed up.

Every man's life is a fairy tale, written by God's fingers.

Life itself is the most wonderful fairy tale.

She laughed and danced with the thought of death in her heart.

The whole world is a series of miracles, but we're so used to them we call them ordinary things.

Everything you look at can become a fairy tale and you can get a story from everything you touch.

To be of use to the world is the only way to be happy.

Death walks faster than the wind and never returns what he has taken.

You are a dreamer, and that is your misfortune.

My life will be the best illustration of all my work.

It doesn't matter if you're born in a duck yard, so long as you are hatched from a swan's egg!

Never had she danced so beautifully; the sharp knives cut her feet, but she did not feel it, for the pain in her heart was far greater.

I know what you want. It is very stupid of you, but you shall have your way, and it will bring you to sorrow, my pretty princess. - The sea witch.

I can give her no greater power than she has already, said the woman; don't you see how strong that is? How men and animals are obliged to serve her, and how well she has got through the world, barefooted as she is. She cannot receive any power from me greater than she now has, which consists in her own purity and innocence of heart. If she cannot herself obtain access to the Snow Queen, and remove the glass fragments from little Kay, we can do nothing to help her.

Brave soldier, never fear. Even though your death is near.

‎"Does all the beauty of the world stop when you die?" "No," said the Old Oak; "it will last much longer - longer than I can even think of." "Well, then," said the little May-fly, "we have the same time to live; only we reckon differently.

But shouldn't all of us on earth give the best we have to others and offer whatever is in our power?

I only appear to be dead.

Sharp knives seemed to cut her delicate feet, yet she hardly felt them, so deep was the pain in her heart. She could not forget that this was the last night she would ever see the one for whom she had left her home and family, had given up her beautiful voice, and had day by day endured unending torment, of which he knew nothing at all. An eternal night awaited her.

His own image; no longer a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan. To be born in a duck's nest, in a farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird, if it is hatched from a swan's egg.

They could see she was a real Princess and no question about it, now that she had felt one pea all the way through twenty mattresses and twenty more feather beds. Nobody but a Princess could be so delicate.

He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him;

Travelling expands the mind rarely.

At first she was overjoyed that he would be with her, but then she recalled that human people could not live under the water, and he could only visit her father's palace as a dead man.

When we get to the end of the story, you will know more than you do now...

And they both sat there, grown up, yet children at heart; and it was summer, - warm, beautiful summer.

The good and the beautiful is not forgotten; it lives in legend and in song.

Almighty God, thee only have I; thou steerest my fate, I must give myself up to thee! Give me a livelihood! Give me a bride! My blood wants love, as my heart does!

WHAT WAS JANE AUSTEN'S LAST FINISHED NOVEL?" "Vaginas and Virginity." "WHO IS THE LAST PERSON IAGO KILLS IN OTHELLO?" "His manservant Retardio, for forgetting to change the Brita filter!" "WHAT HAPPENS TO THE LITTLE MERMAID AT THE END OF CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN'S THE LITTLE MERMAID?" "She turns into a fish and marries Nemo!" "Fuck you!

It was the last night that she would breathe the same air as he, or look out over the deep sea and up into the star-blue heaven. A dreamless, eternal night awaited her, for she had no soul and had not been able to win one.

I never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling.

It is only with the heart that one can see clearly, for the most essential things are invisible to the eye.

Every man’s life is a fairytale written by God’s hand.

As a child, my idea of the West was that it was a miasma of poverty and misery, like that of the homeless 'Little Match Girl'in the Hans Christian Andersen story. When I was in the boarding nursery and did not want to finish my food, the teacher would say:'Think of all the starving children in the capitalist world!

In the days of Moses and the prophets such a man would have been counted among the wise men of the land; in the Middle Ages he would have been burned at the stake.

Everyone's life is a fairy tale written by God's fingers.

Some are created for beauty, and some for use; and there are some which one can do without altogether.

You have become my thinking’s single thought, My heart’s first love: it had no love before. I love you as no love on earth is wrought, I love you now and love you evermore.

At leve er ikke nok. Solskin, frihed og en lille blomst må man ha

A mermaid has not an immortal soul, nor can she obtain one unless she wins the love of a human being. On the power of another hangs her eternal destiny.

mermaids have no tears, and therefore they suffer more.

You’re a fine one for tramping around,” the bandit girl said to Kai. “I’d like to know – do you really deserve to have someone run to the end of the world just for your sake?

We have no immortal souls; we have no future life; we are just like the green sea-weed, which, once cut down, can never revive again! Men, on the other hand, have a soul which lives for ever, lives after the body has become dust; it rises through the clear air, up to the shining stars!

There was a proud Teapot, proud of being made of porcelain, proud of its long spout and its broad handle. It had something in front of it and behind it; the spout was in front, and the handle behind, and that was what it talked about. But it didn't mention its lid, for it was cracked and it was riveted and full of defects, and we don't talk about our defects - other people do that. The cups, the cream pitcher, the sugar bowl - in fact, the whole tea service - thought much more about the defects in the lid and talked more about it than about the sound handle and the distinguished spout. The Teapot knew this.

Then your tail will divide and shrink until it becomes what the people on earth call a pair of shapely legs. But it will hurt; it will feel as if a sharp sword slashed through you. Everyone who sees you will say that you are the most graceful human being they have ever laid eyes on, for you will keep your gliding movement and no dancer will be able to tread as lightly as you. But every step you take will feel as if you were treading upon knife blades so sharp that blood must flow. I am willing to help you, but are you willing to suffer all this?" "Yes," the little mermaid said in a trembling voice, as she thought of the Prince and of gaining a human soul.

Autumn came, and the leaves in the forest turned to orange and gold. Then, as winter approached, the wind caught them as they fell

Now, if we only had as many casks of butter as there are people here, then I would eat lots of butter!

Farewell, farewell," said the swallow, with a heavy heart, as he left the warm countries, to fly back into Denmark. There he had a nest over the window of a house in which dwelt the writer of fairy tales. The swallow sang "Tweet, tweet," and from his song came the whole story.

They sat close to each other, and he told her a story about her eyes. They were beautiful dark lakes in which her thoughts swam about like mermaids. And her forehead was a snowy mountain, grand and shining. These were lovely stories.

Donc, il faudra que je meure et flotte comme écume sur la mer et n'entende jamais plus la musique des vagues, ne voit plus les fleurs ravissantes et le rouge soleil. Ne puis-je rien faire pour gagner une vie éternelle?

She was so young that love was still a game to her. . . . She was being neither fair nor clever, but Babette was only nineteen years old.

Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale.

He found whole figures which represented a written word; but he never could manage to represent just the word he wanted - that word was 'eternity', and the Snow Queen had said, "If you can discover that figure, you shall be your own master, and I will make you a present of the whole world and a pair of new skates." But he could not find it out.

Her tender feet felt as if cut with sharp knives, but she cared not for it; a sharper pang had pierced through her heart.

Where are your sons?" asked the prince. "Well, it's not so easy to give an answer when you ask a stupid question!" said the woman.

And the Top spoke no more of his old love; for that dies away when the beloved objects has lain for five years in a roof gutter and got wet through; yes, one does not know her again when one meets her in the dust box.

Every person’s life is a fairytale written by God’s fingers.

Most of the people who will walk after me will be children, so make the beat keep time with short steps.

Because she could not go near all these wonderful things, she longed for them all the more.

Now he is certainly sailing above, he on whom my wishes hang, and in whose hand I should like to lay my life's happiness. I will dare everything to win him and an immortal soul.

the heart that one can see clearly, for the most essential things are invisible

And, above all, beware of the cat.

I only do His will, replied Death. I am his gardener. I take all His flowers and trees, and transplant them into the gardens of Paradise in an unknown land. How they flourish there, and what that garden resembles, I may not tell you.

Yes, it is wonderful to be alive! Indeed, the Bottle inwardly sang of all this, as do young poets, who frequently also know nothing about the things of which they sing." From The Bottle Neck

No one would allow that he could not see these much-admired clothes; because, in doing so, he would have declared himself either a simpleton or unfit of his office.

...and she put a wreath of white lilies round her hair, but every petal of the flowers was half a pearl;

Hans Christian Andersen said 'Every man's life is a fairy tale written by God's fingers.' Maybe he was right, maybe not. Either way, just remember: enchanting as they may be, in fairytales the forests are always dark.

He looked at the little maiden, and she looked at him; and he felt that he was melting away, but he still managed to keep himself erect, shouldering his gun bravely. A door was suddenly opened, the draught caught the little dancer and she fluttered like a sylph, straight into the fire, to the soldier, blazed up and was gone! By this time the soldier was reduced to a mere lump, and when the maid took away the ashes next morning she found him, in the shape of a small tin heart. All that was left of the dancer was her spangle, and that was burnt as black as a coal.

ele pediu-me para rezar, mas eu só me lembrava da tabuada

Roses bloom and cease to be, but we shall the Christ-child see

I think I will sit on it a little while longer," said the duck, "as I have sat so long already, a few days will be nothing." "Please yourself," said the old duck, and she went away.

I will fly to those royal birds,

cry so strange that it frightened him.

Grant not my prayers, when they are contrary to Thy will, which at all times must be the best. Oh, hear them not;

Well, that's not easy to answer when the question is so stupidly put...

How large the world is,

Just living is not enough... One must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower. —Hans Christian Andersen

It is only with the heart that one can see clearly, for the most essential things are invisible to the eye." – ANTONIE DE SAINTE EXUPERY

The right sort (of story) come of themselves: they tap at my forehead and say 'Here we are.

But they hurt me so,” said the little mermaid. “Pride must suffer pain,” replied the old lady.

We have not immortal souls, we shall never live again; but, like the green sea-weed, when once it has been cut off, we can never flourish more. Human beings, on the contrary, have a soul which lives forever, lives after the body has been turned to dust. It rises up through the clear, pure air beyond the glittering stars. As we rise out of the water, and behold all the land of the earth, so do they rise to unknown and glorious regions which we shall never see.

Early in the morning, a peasant, who was passing by, saw what had happened. He broke the ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and carried the duckling home to his wife. The warmth revived the poor

There was once a king's son. Nobody had so many or such beautiful books as he had. He could read about everything which had ever happened in the world, and see it all represented in the most beautiful pictures.

Then little Gerda said the Lord's Prayer; the cold was so intense that she could see her own breath; it came out of her mouth like smoke. Her breath became thicker and thicker, and took the form of little angels who grew larger and larger as soon as they touched the ground. All had helmets on their heads, and lances and shields in their hands; their numbers increased, and when Gerda had finished her prayer a whole legion stood around her. They trust their lances against the horrible snow-flakes, so that the latter flew into a hundred pieces; and little Gerda went forward safely and cheerfully. The angels stroked her hands and feet, so that she felt the cold less, and she hastened on to the Snow Queen's castle.

Só se um ser humano a amasse tanto que você importasse mais para ele que pai e mãe. Se ele a amasse de todo o coração e deixasse o padre pôr a mão direita sobre a sua como uma promessa de ser fiel e verdadeiro por toda a eternidade. Nesse caso, a alma dele deslizaria para dentro do seu corpo e você, também, obteria uma parcela da felicidade humana. Ele lhe daria uma alma e, no entanto, conservaria a dele próprio.

The Ugly Duckling The classic story by Hans Christian

[...] and the pea was put in the museum, where it can still be seen, if no one has stolen it.

Delayed is not forgotten!

I know what you want. It is very stupid of you, but you shall have your way, and it will bring you sorrow, my pretty princess.

only that the mermaids have no tears, and therefore they suffer more.

A human life is a story told by God.

But these are small troubles, people will say. Yes, but they are drops which wear hollows in the rock.

The angel plucks a large handful of flowers, and they carry it with them up to God, where the flowers bloom more brightly than they ever did on earth.

push it myself." On the next day the weather was delightful, and the sun shone brightly on the green burdock

This was the last evening that she should breathe the same air with him or gaze on the starry sky and the deep sea. An eternal night, without a thought or a dream, awaited her.

Hans and Christian just stare at me, faces grim. All I can think of is how awesome it would be if my name were Andersen.

child, looking through bubbles into the future; now those bright bubbles were all behind him. Once more he had

he reached a poor little cottage that seemed ready to fall, and only remained standing because it could not decide on which side to fall first

Superbe! Charmant! exclaimed the ladies; for they all used to chatter French, each one worse than her neighbor.

Leben allein genügt nicht, sagte der Schmetterling. Sonnenschein, Freiheit und eine kleine Blume muss man auch haben.

Pop, pop," sounded in the air, and the two wild geese fell dead among the rushes, and the water was tinged with blood.

No death is sweeter than this, and no rose redder than the blood that flows.

Then she saw a star fall, leaving behind it a bright streak of fire. “Someone is dying,” thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star falls, a soul was going up to God.

What ticks in the clock, beats here with strong strokes of the hammer. It is Bloodless, who drank life from human thought and thereby got limbs of metals, stone and wood; it is Bloodless, who by human thought gained strength, which man himself does not physically possess. Bloodless reigns in Motala, and through the large foundries and factories he extends his hard limbs, whose joints and parts consist of wheel within wheel, chains, bars, and thick iron wires.

Fairy tales are about trouble, about getting into and out of it, and trouble seems to be a necessary stage on the route to becoming. All the magic and glass mountains and pearls the size of houses and princesses beautiful as the day and talking birds and part-time serpents are distractions from the core of most of the stories, the struggle to survive against adversaries, to find your place in the world, and to come into your own. Fairy tales are almost always the stories of the powerless, of youngest sons, abandoned children, orphans, of humans transformed into birds and beasts or otherwise enchanted away from their own lives and selves. Even princesses are chattels to be disowned by fathers, punished by step-mothers, or claimed by princes, though they often assert themselves in between and are rarely as passive as the cartoon versions. Fairy tales are children's stories not in wh they were made for but in their focus on the early stages of life, when others have power over you and you have power over no one. In them, power is rarely the right tool for survival anyway. Rather the powerless thrive on alliances, often in the form of reciprocated acts of kindness -- from beehives that were not raided, birds that were not killed but set free or fed, old women who were saluted with respect. Kindness sewn among the meek is harvested in crisis... In Hans Christian Andersen's retelling of the old Nordic tale that begins with a stepmother, "The Wild Swans," the banished sister can only disenchant her eleven brothers -- who are swans all day look but turn human at night -- by gathering stinging nettles barehanded from churchyard graves, making them into flax, spinning them and knitting eleven long-sleeved shirts while remaining silent the whole time. If she speaks, they'll remain birds forever. In her silence, she cannot protest the crimes she accused of and nearly burned as a witch. Hauled off to a pyre as she knits the last of the shirts, she is rescued by the swans, who fly in at the last moment. As they swoop down, she throws the nettle shirts over them so that they turn into men again, all but the youngest brother, whose shirt is missing a sleeve so that he's left with one arm and one wing, eternally a swan-man. Why shirts made of graveyard nettles by bleeding fingers and silence should disenchant men turned into birds by their step-mother is a question the story doesn't need to answer. It just needs to give us compelling images of exile, loneliness, affection, and metamorphosis -- and of a heroine who nearly dies of being unable to tell her own story.

Have you ever read Hans Christian Andersen’s story of The Little Mermaid, Miranda? Have you ever wanted something so badly that you were willing to suffer the sensation of a thousand blades cutting into your feet?

The stork walking about on his long red legs chattered in the Egyptian language, which he had learnt from his mother. The corn-fields and meadows were surrounded by large forests, in the midst of which were deep pools.

Wiśnie były wyborne, a Gerda głodna, więc jadła, uśmiechając się z zadowoleniem, gdy staruszka złotym grzebieniem czesała jej złote włosy. Czesała je długo, w dziwnym blasku czerwonych i niebieskich szybek, a Gerda zapomniała o Kaju, babce i rodzicach, bo grzebień był zaczarowany, staruszka zaś była wróżką.

Chi ha una casa in patria può provare nostalgia, ma chi nulla possiede si sente a casa ovunque.

But he hasn't got anything on," a little child said.

But he hasn't got anything on!" the whole town cried out at last.

A short time ago"—the Star's "short time ago" is called among men "centuries ago"—"my rays followed a young artist. It was in the city of the Popes, in

But if the star should set, even while I am penning these lines, be it so; still I can say it has shone, and I have received a rich portion.

Human beings.. have souls which lives forever, lives after the body has been turned to dust. It rises up through the clear, pure air beyond the glittering stars

swim." "I think I will sit on it a little while longer," said the duck, "as I have sat so long already, a few days will be nothing.

Yes, it always pays when the wife believes and admits that her husband is the wisest man in the world and that whatever he does is right.

Life is a faerytale written by God's hand.

Life is full of tough choices, indeed.

language, which he had learnt from his mother. The corn-fields and meadows were surrounded by large forests, in the midst

At length

better than the others. I think he will grow up pretty,

he is

flew out and bit him in the neck. "Let him alone," said the mother, "he is not doing any harm." "Yes, but he

Crois-tu que la flamme de l’âme puisse périr dans les flammes du bucher?

That is impossible,

At his next visit he fancied he must have got into a narrow needlecase, full of sharp needles: “Oh,” thought he, “this must be the heart of an old maid;” but such was not the fact;

exclaimed,

إن الألم الناتج عن النبذ والاستبعاد يماثل الألم البدني حدة..

therefore, when she

Sharp knives seemed to cut her delicate feet, yet she hardly felt them--so deep was the pain in her heart.

На самом дне живут русалки.

The sea is softer than your delicate hands, and yet it can alter the shape of hard stones.

It happened that very day that he had a large party to dinner; our celebrated composer Weyse was there, the poet Baggesen, and other guests.

beyond

while

venture

ducklings

country,

emperor,

Every author has some peculiarity in his descriptions or in his style of writing. Those who do not like him, magnify it, shrug up their shoulders, and exclaim __ there he is again!

they made themselves comfortable.

Life itself is the most wonderful fairy tale.” — Hans Christian Andersen

Oh," said the mother, "that is not a turkey. How well he uses his legs, and how upright he holds himself! He is my own child, and he is not so very ugly after all if you look at him properly. Quack, quack! Come with me now. I will take you into grand society, and introduce you to the farmyard, but you must keep close to me or you may be trodden upon. And, above all, beware of the cat." When they reached the farmyard,

I am going to withdraw from the world; nothing that happens there is any concern of mine.” And the snail went into his house and puttied up the entrance. —Hans Christian Andersen, “The Snail and the Rosebush,” 1861

Then he would cry, but what nobody knows nobody cares for; so he would cry till he was tired, and then fall asleep; and while we are asleep we can feel neither hunger nor thirst. Ah, yes; sleep is a capital invention.

And Kay and Gerda looked in each other’s eyes, and all at once they understood the old hymn: “The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet, And angels descend there the children to greet.” There sat the two grown-up persons; grown-up, and yet children; children at least in heart; and it was summer-time; summer, glorious summer!

he had made a mirror with the power of causing all that was good and beautiful when it was reflected therein, to look poor and mean; but that which was good-for-nothing and looked ugly was shown magnified and increased in ugliness. In

So I shall die," said the little mermaid, "and as the foam of the sea I shall be driven about never again to hear the music of the waves, or to see the pretty flowers nor the red sun. Is there anything I can do to win an immortal soul?

Creators of literary fairy tales from the 17th-century onward include writers whose works are still widely read today: Charles Perrault (17th-century France), Hans Christian Andersen (19th-century Denmark), George Macdonald and Oscar Wilde (19th-century England). The Brothers Grimm (19th-century Germany) blurred the line between oral and literary tales by presenting their German "household tales" as though they came straight from the mouths of peasants, though in fact they revised these stories to better reflect their own Protestant ethics. It is interesting to note that these canonized writers are all men, since this is a reversal from the oral storytelling tradition, historically dominated by women. Indeed, Straparola, Basile, Perrault, and even the Brothers Grimm made no secret of the fact that their source material came largely or entirely from women storytellers. Yet we are left with the impression that women dropped out of the history of fairy tales once they became a literary form, existing only in the background as an anonymous old peasant called Mother Goose.

A woman of Copenhagen, with whom I travelled from Odense to this city, and who gladly, according to her means, would have supported me, obtained, through one of her acquaintance, a language-master, who gratuitously gave me some German lessons,

I saw one of his comrades led to execution; he had killed a Frenchman. Many years afterwards this little circumstance occasioned me to write my little poem, "The Soldier," which Chamisso translated into German, and which afterwards was included in the illustrated people's books of soldier-songs.

Oh, how I wish I were tall enough to go on the sea,” said the fir tree. “What is the sea, and what does it look like?” “It would take too much time to explain,” said the stork, flying quickly away. “Rejoice in thy youth,” said the sunbeam, “rejoice in thy fresh growth, and the young life that is in thee.

In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been frozen to death on the last evening of the year . . . No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she had entered with her grandmother, on New-year’s day.

I can give her no greater power than she has already... don’t you see how strong that is? How men and animals are obliged to serve her and how well she has got through the world, barefoot as she is. She cannot receive from me any power greater than she now has, which consists in her own purity and innocence of heart.

Yet still they flew on and on, higher and higher, till at last the mirror trembled so fearfully that it slipped from their hands and fell to the earth, shivered into hundreds of millions and billions of bits. And then it did more harm than ever. Some of these bits were not as big as a grain of sand and these flew about, all over the world, getting into people’s eyes. And once in, they stuck there and distorted everything they looked at or made them see everything that was amiss.

Il mare appariva come una volta eterea, come un cielo solido e senza stelle sotto di noi, e nell'aria trasparente si perdeva nell'immensità; nessuna striscia, scura o luminosa, limitava l'orizzonte; c'era una chiarità, una vastità infinita, che non si può dipingere né descrivere, se non nella profondità eterna del pensiero.

Silence is another element we find in classic fairy tales — girls muted by magic or sworn to silence in order to break enchantment. In "The Wild Swans," a princess is imprisoned by her stepmother, rolled in filth, then banished from home (as her older brothers had been before her). She goes in search of her missing brothers, discovers that they've been turned into swans, whereupon the young girl vows to find a way to break the spell. A mysterious woman comes to her in a dream and tells her what to do: 'Pick the nettles that grow in graveyards, crush and spin them into thread, then weave them into coats and throw them over your brothers' backs.' The nettles burn and blister, yet she never falters: picking, spinning, weaving, working with wounded, crippled hands, determined to save her brothers. All this time she's silent. 'You must not speak,' the dream woman has warned, 'for a single world will be like a knife plunged into your brothers' hearts.' You must not speak. That's what my stepfather said: don't speak, don't cry, don't tell. That's what my mother said as well, as we sat in hospital waiting rooms -- and I obeyed, as did my brothers. We sat as still and silent as stone while my mother spun false tales to explain each break and bruise and burn. Our family moved just often enough that her stories were fresh and plausible; each new doctor believed her, and chided us children to be more careful. I never contradicted those tales. I wouldn't have dared, or wanted to. They'd send me into foster care. They'd send my young brothers away. And so we sat, and the unspoken truth was as sharp as the point of a knife.

Behind each petal of the rose he had a tiny bedroom. Oh, how fragrant his rooms were, and how bright and transparent the walls, for they were the beautiful pale pink petals of the rose! All day long the little elf rejoiced in the warm sunshine as he flew from flower to flower or danced on the wings of the fluttering butterflies...

It was a lovely summer weather in the country, and the golden corn, the green oats, and the haystacks piled up in the meadows looked beautiful. The stork walking about on his long red legs chattered in the Egyptian language, which he had learnt from his mother. The corn-fields and meadows were surrounded by large forests, in the midst of which were deep pools. It was, indeed, delightful to walk about in the country. In a sunny spot stood a pleasant old farm-house close by a deep river, and from the house down to the water side grew great burdock leaves, so high, that under the tallest of them a little child could stand upright. The spot was as wild as the centre of a thick wood. In

To be born in a duck's nest in a farmyard is of no consequence to a bird if it is hatched from a swan's egg. He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him; for the great swans swam round the newcomer and stroked his neck with their beaks, as a welcome.

Имаше на една маса две курабийки, едната във форма на мъж с шапка на главата, другата - жена без шапка, но украсена с някаква захарна пяна ... Мъжът имаше от лявата страна една горчива ядка, която представляваше сърцето му, жената, напротив, бе от чиста захар. Те лежеха на масата за реклама и лежаха дълго, и се влюбиха, но не откриха любовта си ... Той е мъж, той трябва да каже първата дума, мислеше тя, но бе доволна само от туй, че любовта ѝ с любов среща. Дни и седмици те лежаха на масата и изсъхнаха. Мислите на жената ставаха все по-нежни и по-женствени. Достатъчно е, че съм близо до него, мислеше тя и в туй време се пукна през средата. Да би знаяла моята любов, би издържала повече, мислеше той.

It does not matter that one has been born in the henyard as long as one has lain in a swan’s egg.

lovely summer weather in the country, and the golden corn, the green

The beautiful and the good are never forgotten, they live always in story or in song.

personal expenses and deposited

use

eel's

pocket,

Aunty;

summer

He felt so very happy, but he wasn't at all proud, for a good heart never grows proud.

such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling.

Los cuentos son para dormir a los niños y despertar a los adultos.

Livet selv er det mest vidunderlige eventyr.

The flake of snow grew larger and larger; and at last it was like a young lady, dressed in the finest white gauze, made of a million little flakes like stars. She was so beautiful and delicate, but she was of ice, of dazzling, sparkling ice; yet she lived; her eyes gazed fixedly, like two stars; but there was neither quiet nor repose in them. She nodded towards the window, and beckoned with her hand. The little boy was frightened, and jumped down from the chair; it seemed to him as if, at the same moment, a large bird flew past the window.

They told tales as they sat at their work, and every one related what wonderful things he had seen or experienced. One afternoon I heard an old man among them say that God knew every thing, both what had happened and what would happen. That idea occupied my whole mind, and towards evening, as I went alone from the court, where there was a deep pond, and stood upon some stones which were just within the water, the thought passed through my head, whether God actually knew everything which was to happen there. Yes, he has now determined that I should live and be so many years old, thought I; but, if I now were to jump into the water here and drown myself, then it would not be as he wished; and all at once I was firmly and resolutely determined to drown myself. I ran to where the water was deepest, and then a new thought passed through my soul. "It is the devil who wishes to have power over me!" I uttered a loud cry, and, running away from the place as if I were pursued, fell weeping into my mother's arms. But neither she nor any one else could wring from me what was amiss with me.

She knew for a fact that being left-handed automatically made you special. Marie Curie, Albert Einstein, Linus Pauling, and Albert Schweitzer were all left-handed. Of course, no believable scientific theory could rest on such a small group of people. When Lindsay probed further, however, more proof emerged. Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, M.C. Escher, Mark Twain, Hans Christian Andersen, Lewis Carrol, H.G. Wells, Eudora Welty, and Jessamyn West- all lefties. The lack of women in her research had initially bothered her until she mentioned it to Allegra. "Chalk that up to male chauvinism," she said. "Lots of left-handed women were geniuses. Janis Joplin was. All it means is that the macho-man researchers didn't bother asking.

in a single instant, can the consciousness of the sin that has been committed in thoughts, words, and actions of our past life, be unfolded to us. When once the conscience is awakened, it springs up in the heart spontaneously, and God awakens the conscience when we least expect it. Then we can find no excuse for ourselves; the deed is there and bears witness against us.

I read Hans Christian Andersen when I was young and don’t recall a single tale that wasn’t heavy. And that was how I got a feel for, you know, the one-legged little tin soldier who could never catch up with the ballerina he was courting. If you can accept that—that some things aren’t meant to be, that you can’t get all you want—you can be more accepting in your own life.

The stork walking about on his long red legs chattered in the Egyptian language, which he had learnt from his mother. The corn-fields and meadows were surrounded by large forests, in the midst of which were deep pools. It was, indeed, delightful to walk about in the country. In a sunny spot stood a pleasant old farm-house close by a deep river, and from the house down to the water side grew great burdock leaves, so high, that under the tallest of them a little child could stand upright. The spot was as wild as the centre of a thick wood. In this snug retreat sat a duck on her nest, watching for her young

I took all this criticism very personally, thinking I was bringing about America’s moral decay. So I decided to write children’s books. This was a stretch for me, because I hate children. But, Dr. Seuss hated children. So did Hans Christian Andersen. Lewis Carroll loved children in a way that’s illegal in forty-eight states. (I mentioned this in a lecture, and someone asked, “What are the two states where it’s okay?” That’s how I met R. Kelly.)

That was the greatest appeal Hans Christian Andersen (and most nineteenth-century child-adjacent literature, really) had for me: how often and in how many different ways he could ask the question “What if you were extremely beautiful and then you died, and dying made you even more beautiful, and then a lot of sympathetic people watched you dying and said things like, ‘Oh, how terrible that someone so beautiful is dying, how awful’?” My appetite at six, at nine, at twelve, at thirty, for stories like that were as boundless as my appetite for roast chicken skin; any fantasy that involved doing nothing when faced with important decisions while being praised for my appearance appealed to me.

And now it worked much more evil than before; for some of these pieces were hardly so large as a grain of sand, and they flew about in the wide world, and when they got into people’s eyes, there they stayed; and then people saw everything perverted, or only had an eye for that which was evil. This happened because the very smallest bit had the same power which the whole mirror had possessed. Some persons even got a splinter in their heart, and then it made one shudder, for their heart became like a lump of ice.

Over time, we asked writers like the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, and Charles Perrault to publish the stories so they would live on forever. During that time, I realized how important storytelling is. While philosophy and science help enhance our mind and body, storytelling stimulates our spirit. It broadens our imagination, teaches us valuable lessons, shows us that things are not always as they seem, and encourages us to reach our greatest potential. With that said, I have a favor to ask of anyone reading this: Become a storyteller! Read to others the fairy tales in this book. Read them stories from another book. If you can, create your own stories to share. When you pass along the art of storytelling to your family and friends, you make the world a better place.

The water closed over their heads, but they came up again in an instant, and swam about quite prettily with their legs paddling under them as easily as possible, and the ugly duckling was also in the water swimming with them. "Oh," said the mother, "that is not a turkey. How well he uses his legs, and how upright he holds himself! He is my own child, and he is not so very ugly after all if you look at him properly. Quack, quack! Come with me now. I will take you into grand society, and introduce you to the farmyard, but you must

out-of-doors there was quite a snow-storm. “It is the white bees that are swarming,” said Kay’s old grandmother. “Do the white bees choose a queen?” asked the little boy; for he knew that the honey-bees always have one. “Yes,” said the grandmother, “she flies where the swarm hangs in the thickest clusters. She is the largest of all; and she can never remain quietly on the earth, but goes up again into the black clouds. Many a winter’s night she flies through the streets of the town, and peeps in at the windows; and they then freeze in so wondrous a manner that they look like flowers.

Our princess moaned and wept. Her tears fell on the elder-stump, and it was quite moved, for it was the Marsh King himself, who lives in the quagmire. I saw the stump turn itself, so it wasn’t only a trunk, for it put out long, muddy boughs like arms. Then the unhappy girl was frightened, ans sprang aside into the quivering marsh, which will not bear me, much less her. In at once she sank, and down with her went the elder-stump - it was he who pulled her down. Then a few big black bubbles, and no trace of her left. She is engulfed in the marsh, and will never return to Egypt with her flower…

She knew this was the last evening she should ever see the prince, for whom she had forsaken her kindred and her home; she had given up her beautiful voice, and suffered unheard-of pain daily for him, while he knew nothing of it. —“The Little Mermaid,” Hans Christian Andersen, translated by H. P. Paull

My aunt and my mother read to me when I was three from all the old Grimm fairy tales, Andersen fairy tales, and then all the Oz books as I was growing up… So by the time when I was ten or eleven, I was just full to the brim with these, and the Greek myths, and the Roman myths. And then, of course, I went to Sunday school, and then you take in the Christian myths, which are all fascinating in their own way… I guess I always tended to be a visual person, and myths are very visual, and I began to draw, and then I felt the urge to carry on these myths. If I’m anything at all, I’m not really a science-fiction writer — I’m a writer of fairy tales and modern myths about technology.

Whether an individual’s conspiracism exists alongside religious faith, psychologically they’re similar: a conspiracy theory can be revised and refined and further confirmed, but it probably can’t ever be disproved to a true believer’s satisfaction. The final conspiratorial nightmare crackdown is always right around the corner but never quite comes—as with the perpetually fast-approaching end-time. Like Christians certain both that evolution is a phony theory and that God created people a few thousand years ago, conspiracists are simultaneously credulous (about impossible plots) and incredulous (about the confusing, dull gray truth). Conspiracists often deride arguments against their theories as disinformation cooked up by the conspirators—the way some Christians consider evolutionary explanations to be the work of the devil.

But the most beautiful sight of all is old Kronborg, and in a deep, dark cellar beneath it, where no one ever goes, sleeps Holger Danske. He is clad in iron and steel and rests his head on his strange arms; his long beard hangs down over the marble table and has grown through it. He sleeps and dreams, and in his dreams he sees all that happens here in Denmark. Every Christmas Eve one of God's angels comes to him and tells him that what he had dreamed is true; he may sleep again, for no real peril threatens Denmark. But should real danger come, old Holger Danske will rise in his fury, and the table itself will burst as he wrenches his beard from it, and the mighty blows he strikes for Denmark will be heard throughout the world.

Here there was a cheerful boy At least he created tales and lived in joy. Nursery rhymes his grandmother told, Songs and tales emerged gladly in gold. Caring heart, affection spoke loud as brighter, He made the decision: he would be a writer! Rising laughters, crying tears, many feelings, Inserted everything and nothing was in vain. So he transformed the ugly into beautiful, Tales to amuse and make everyone sane, In there he went, without daydreams or zeal. As such it was born the icon of literature still. No one denied he was exceedingly bountiful. A ballerina loves the soldier in his world, Nothing gets involved in his fairy tales, Dancing from a poor weak boy to a king, Eccentric prince of charm in winged corners! Rare star of sweet tenderness, Sensible and masterful in tenderness, Emchanted kingdom of dreams and candor, Now a divine fire of a soul he shines. Havia um menino alegre porem so Ao menos criava contos e deles vivia Nas historias que contava sua avo, Seus contos surgiam pois ele os via. Carinho nao faltava em seu coracao ator, Havia tomado a decisao: seria escritor! Risos, lagrimas, sentimentos saos, Inseria tudo e nada era em vao. Transformava ate o feio em belo, Inadvertia e divertia com seu elo, Adiante ia, sem devaneios e zelo. Nascia assim o icone da literatura. A bailarina ama o soldado em seu mundo, Nada se interpunha em seus contos de fadas, De pobre menino fraco e cogitabundo, Era principe de encantos em cantos alados! Rara estrela de doce brandura, Sensata e magistral em ternura, Em seu reino de sonhos e candura, No fogo divino de sua alma fulgura.

IN ADDITION TO having become a distinctly Christian party, the GOP is more than ever America’s self-consciously white party. The nationalization of its Southern Strategy from the 1960s worked partly because it rode demographic change. In 1960, 90 percent of Americans were white and non-Hispanic. Only a few states had white populations of less than 70 percent—specifically Mississippi, South Carolina, Louisiana, and Alabama. Today the white majority in the whole country is down nearly to 60 percent; in other words, America’s racial makeup is now more “Southern” than the Deep South’s was in the 1960s. For a while, the party’s leaders were careful to clear their deck of explicit racism. It was reasonable, wasn’t it, to be concerned about violent crime spiraling upward from the 1960s through the ’80s? We don’t want social welfare programs to encourage cultures of poverty and dependency, do we? Although the dog-whistled resentment of new policies disfavoring or seeming to disfavor white people became more audible, Republican leaders publicly stuck to not-entirely-unreasonable arguments: affirmative action is an imperfect solution; too much multiculturalism might Balkanize America; we shouldn’t let immigrants pour into the U.S. helter-skelter. But in this century, more Republican leaders started cozying up to the ugliest fantasists, unapologetic racists. When Congressman Ron Paul ran for the 2008 GOP nomination, he appeared repeatedly with the neo-Nazi Richard Spencer, who was just coining the term “alt-right” for his movement. Senator Rand Paul employed as an aide and wrote a book with a former leader of the League of the South, an organization devoted to a twenty-first-century do-over of Confederate secession. After we elected a black president, more regular whistles joined the kind only dogs can hear. Even thoughtful Ross Douthat, one of the Times’s conservative columnists, admitted to a weakness for the Old South fantasy. During the debate about governments displaying Confederate symbols after nine black people were shot dead by a white supremacist in Charleston, he discussed “the temptation…to regard the Confederate States of America as the political and historical champion of all…attractive Southern distinctives….Even a secession-hating Yankee like myself has felt, at certain moments the pull of that idea, the lure of that fantasy.

There is a fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen about a soldier who is going through a forest. He meets an old woman who gives him a magic apron and sends him down into a deep shaft. He finds rooms of treasure as he goes deeper and deeper—each treasure greater than the last and each treasure guarded by a terrifying dog, each dog with larger eyes. The first one has eyes as big as saucers; the last one has eyes as big as wagon wheels. He does as the old woman told him: spreads out the apron, picks up each dog and puts it on the apron, and this makes him safe. In the first room he finds copper and fills his pockets. In the second room he finds silver and has to empty his pockets of copper to make room for silver. In the third room he finds gold and has to throw away the silver in order to gather the greater treasure. This tale is a metaphor for the process of making art. There is danger in going down into the unknown. What we will find there, in the unconscious where creation happens, may call for all our skill, all our intuition. It may change us; it may redefine our lives. But I believe we have no other choice if we are to be artist/writers. The act of writing is a tremendous adventure into the unknown, always fraught with danger. But the deeper you go and the longer you work at your art, the greater will be your treasure.