Tove Ditlevsen Quotes

Childhood is long and narrow like a coffin, and you can’t get out of it on your own.

Med ingen kan man dele sine inderste tanker. Det vigtigste i verden er man alene med.

Meanwhile I am only twenty years old, and the days descend on me un-noticeably like dust, each one just like the rest.

Even though no one else cares for my poems, I have to write them because it dulls the sorrow and longing in my heart.

childhood falls silently to the bottom of my memory, that library of the soul from which I will draw knowledge and experience for the rest of my life.

Hygge is a state of being you experience if you are at peace with yourself, your spouse, the tax authorities and your inner organs.

That’s the worst thing about grownups, I think – they can never admit that just once in their lives they’ve acted wrongly or irresponsibly. They’re so quick to judge others, but they never hold Judgement Day for themselves.

It bothers me a lot that I don’t seem to own any real feelings anymore, but always have to pretend that I do by copying other people’s reactions. It’s as if I’m only moved by things that come to me indirectly. I can cry when I see a picture in the newspaper of an unfortunate family that’s been evicted, but when I see the same ordinary sight in reality, it doesn’t touch me. I’m moved by poetry and lyrical prose, now as always – but the things that are described leave me completely cold. I don’t think very much of reality.

Jeg vil gerne rette en særlig tak til Illums Bolighus, fordi de skabte så smagfuldt og fint gennemtænkt et hjem for en familie, der aldrig har eksisteret.

Vil du afværge volden, må du elske dig selv så højt, at du ikke vil finde dig i den. (slutningen af ove Ditlevsens digt "Elsk dig selv")

There's a young girl in me who refuses to die.

Wherever you turn, you run up against your childhood and hurt yourself because it’s sharp-edged and hard, and stops only when it has torn you completely apart. It seems that everyone has their own and each is totally different. My brother’s childhood is very noisy, for example, while mine is quiet and furtive and watchful. No one likes it and no one has any use for it.

I always think there is a mystical understanding between the moon and the street, like between two sisters who have grown old together and no longer need any language to communicate with each other.

Time passed and my childhood grew thin and flat, paperlike. It was tired and threadbare, and in low moments it didn’t look like it would last until I was grown up.

I sink into a sweet melancholy and rhythmic waves of words stream through me again.

Being young is itself temporary, fragile, and ephemeral. You have to get through it - it has no other meaning.

and I always dream about meeting some mysterious person who will listen to me and understand me. I know from books that such people exist, but you can't find any of them on my childhood street.

Childhood is dark and it’s always moaning like a little animal that’s locked in a cellar and forgotten. It comes out of your throat like your breath in the cold, and sometimes it’s too little, other times too big. It never fits exactly. It’s only when it has been cast off that you can look at it calmly and talk about it like an illness you’ve survived.

Og til allersidst den helt nye, snigende bekymring for at livet skal glide forbi hende uden at hun får tag i det.

And I want so badly to own my own time instead of always having to sell it.

Måske, siger han, er du selv indviklet, så bliver dit liv det også.

Jeg har skrevet hele mit liv og nærer en romantisk drøm om at dø midt i en sætning.

Hun gav sig omsider til at elske verden, men kun fordi den skulle udslettes sammen med hende.

Jeg har tit nok været bange for livet, men aldrig døden.

Bøgers skæbne er ligeså forunderlig som menneskers. Den er aldrig til at forudse.

Engang vil jeg skrive alle de ord ned, der gennemstrømmer mig. Engang skal andre mennesker læse dem i en bog og undre sig over, at en pige alligevel kunne blive digter.

Det slog hende som noget dybt foruroligende, at der fandtes dobbelt så mange hænder som ansigter i verden.

On the sly, you observe the adults whose childhood lies inside them, torn and full of holes like a used and moth-eaten rug no one thinks about anymore or has any use for. You can’t tell by looking at them that they’ve had a childhood, and you don’t dare ask how they managed to make it through without their faces getting deeply scarred and marked by it. You suspect that they’ve used some secret shortcut and donned their adult form many years ahead of time. They did it one day when they were home alone and their childhood lay like three bands of iron around their heart, like Iron Hans in Grimms’ fairy tale, whose bands broke only when his master was freed. But if you don’t know such a shortcut, childhood must be endured and trudged through hour by hour, through an absolutely interminable number of years. Only death can free you from it, so you think a lot about death, and picture it as a white-robed, friendly angel who some night will kiss your eyelids so that they never will open again.

Hun ser skygger hvor solen skinner og mørke i den klare dag.

Vis ikke dette brev til andre, for intet menneske vil kunne forstå vores sindssyge forhold, før jeg tager mig sammen og giver kunstnerisk udtryk for det.

Måske skal et barn, der i alt hemmelighed holder af digte, engang finde den der, læse digtene og føle noget ved det, noget hendes omgivelser ikke forstår.

Jeg vil vente med at vise Viggo F. bogen til i morgen. I aften vil jeg være alene med den, for der er ingen, der virkelig forstår, hvilket mirakel den er for mig.

The most important thing, thought Edith, is what happens to a person when they see mountains. The most important thing is probably always precisely the thing you can't have. That's where all the happiness is

Het is lastig om jezelf te blijven als de dingen om je heen constant van vorm veranderen.

Nadja, who is always hunting for a man, but always the wrong one, is trying to get together with Ebbe’s brother Karsten, who she would fit like a ring in his nose.

Jokin ahdistaa rintaani kun kiipeän portaita ylös. Ihmiselämän nurja puoli ammottaa entistä avoimempana minua vasten, ja sitä on entistä vaikeampi kattaa niillä kirjoittamattomilla, vapisevilla sanoilla joita sydämeni aina kuiskaa.

Someday I’ll write down all of the words that flow through me. Someday other people will read them in a book and marvel that a girl could be a poet, after all . . . I want so badly to write down the words, but where in the world would I hide such papers?

My classmates find me unceasingly, overwhelmingly comical, and I've gotten used to the clown role and even find a sad comfort in it, because together with my confirmed stupidity, it protects me against their peculiar meanness toward anyone who is different.

I wrote love poems to the man in the moon, to Ruth, or to no one at all. I thought my poems covered the bare places in my childhood like the fine, new skin under a scab that hasn’t yet fallen off completely. Would my adult form be shaped by my poems? I wondered. During that time I was almost always depressed. The wind in the street blew so cold through my tall, thin body that the world regarded with disapproving looks.

People with such a visible, flagrant childhood both inside and out are called children, and you can treat them any way you like because there’s nothing to fear from them. They have no weapons and no masks unless they are very cunning. I am that kind of cunning child, and my mask is stupidity, which I’m always careful not to let anyone tear away from me. I let my mouth fall open a little and make my eyes completely blank, as if they’re always just staring off into the blue. Whenever it starts singing inside me, I’m especially careful not to let my mask show any holes. None of the grownups can stand the song in my heart or the garlands of words in my soul. But they know about them because bits seep out of me through a secret channel I don’t recognize and therefore can’t stop up.

In my native Denmark, literature seems to be a kind of all people’s Church - or its substitute. We all treat our Danish literature like a church. This is our true form of state religion, our contribution to the world’s variety, diversity and cultural wealth, our vivid and palpable contribution to the entire treasury box of the world and mankind. That's what the Danish literature is. For some of our more down-to-earth neighbours, the literature and literary exercises are merely means of communication, relaxation, amusement, but certainly, nothing that might be considered sacred. Not for us, the Danes. We didn’t happen to write “Hamlet”, but we all the more so revere Karen Blixen, Nikolai Grundtvig, Georg Brandes, Tove Ditlevsen. No wonder: the Vikings whom we also revere as our founding forefathers, were the first Danish writers. The first Danish writings are the Viking inscriptions in the Runic alphabet on raised stones – called “runestones” - that are still quite visible in the Danish landscape.

Childhood is dark and it's always moaning like a little animal that's locked in a cellar and forgotten. It comes out of your throat like your breath in the cold, and sometimes it's too little, other times too big. It never fits exactly. It's only when it has been cast off that you can look at it calmly and talk about it like an illness you've survived.

Below his tired eyes there were deep smoke-colored shadows, and two wrinkles ran down his cheeks as if they were tracks made by tears.

A gyerekkor hosszú és szűk, mint egy koporsó, és egyedül nem lehet kijutni belőle.

Ohne, dass ich es weiß sinkt meine Kindheit leise auf den Grund der Erinnerung. Diese Seelenbibliothek aus der ich bis an mein Lebensende wissen und Erfahrungen schöpfen werde

Childhood is long and narrow like a coffin, and you can't get out of it on your own.

Eine Hure ist eine Dame, die es für Geld macht, was mir viel mehr einleuchtet, als es umsonst zu machen.

Детство — оно длинное и тесное, как гроб, и без посторонней помощи из него не выбраться.

Till den som söker tillflykt hos en som är rädd och svag, nynnar jag en vaggsång mellan natt och dag

Every person has their own truth just as every child has their own childhood.

Nu vallen de laatste resten van mij af als schilfers van een door de zon verbrande huid en eronder komt een ongepaste, onmogelijke volwassene tevoorschijn. Ik lees in mijn poesiealbum terwijl de nacht langs het raam wandelt en zonder dat het doorheb, glijdt mijn kindertijd stilletjes naar de bodem van mijn herinneringen, die bibliotheek van het gemoed, waaruit ik voor de rest van mijn hele bestaan kennis en ervaring zal opdiepen.

...apám elismerően mondja, hogy "a Victor Hugó nagyon jó író", fontoskodva kioktatom: Apa rosszul mondja a nevét. Ügónak ejtik. Leszarom, hogy ejtik, mondja apám rezzenéstelenül. Minden nevet úgy kell ejteni, ahogy le van írva. A többi csak felvágás.

Der brænder et lys i natten,/det brænder alene for mig/og puster jeg til det, så flammer det op, og flammer alene for mig. –/Men taler du stille, og hvisker du tyst,/er lyset pludselig mere end lyst/og brænder dybt i mit eget bryst,/– alene for dig. –//

Det er så lidt kærlighed i verden, at vi fremfor alt må elske den, som de andre har overset. Den det er et arbejde at elske, den vi inderst inde finder afskyelig, fordi han forhinder os i at have det behageligt. Den lidende, den forurettede, den åndeligt armodige, og det anonyme barn der hver morgen må sette sig på plads ved en skolepult, der stinker kvælende af mange generationers angst. There is so little love in the world that we must above all love those that others have overlooked. The ones it's a chore to love, the ones we find deep down disgusting because they prevent us from feeling comfortable. The suffering, the aggrieved, the spiritually impoverished, and the anonymous child who every morning has to sit down at a school desk with the suffocating stench of many generations of fear. Ansigtene

Aikuisten lapsuus roikkuu repaleisena ja puhkottuna heidän sisimmässään kuin käytetty ja koinsyömä matto jota kukaan ei ajattele eikä tarvitse. Heistä ei näe että heillä on ollut lapsuus, eikä heiltä uskalla kysyä miten he käyttäytyivät päästäkseen sen läpi ilman että se jätti heidän kasvoihinsa syviä arpia ja jälkiä.

I carried the cups out to the kitchen, and inside of me long, mysterious words began to crawl across my soul like a protective membrane. A song, a poem, something soothing and rhythmic and immensely pensive, but never distressing or sad, as I knew the rest of my day would be distressing and sad. When these light waves of words streamed through me, I knew that my mother couldn’t do anything else to me because she had stopped being important to me.

Slowly, numbed, I walk through the city's spring, the others' spring, the others' joyous transformation, the others' happiness. I'll never be famous, my poems are worthless. I'll marry a stable skilled worker who doesn't drink, or get a steady job with a pension. After that deadly disappointment, a long time passes before I write in my poetry album again. Even though no one else cares for my poems, I have to write them because it dulls the sorrow and longing in my heart.

Nogle, især piger, havde måttet leve deres mors barndom, mens deres egen lå gemt hen i en hemmelig skuffe. For sådanne piger var det vanskeligst. Deres stemmer brød ud af dem som materien af et sår, og lyden af den forskrækkede dem, som når de opdagede, at nogen havde læst i deres dagbog, skønt den var låst inde mellem skrammel og gammelt legetøj fra den tid, hvor de bar en firårigs udsatte ansigt. Det stirrede op på dem mellem snurretoppene og de invalide dukker med det uskyldige, forbavsede glasblik. Deres søvn var let og lugtede af angst. Hver aften når de ryddede op på deres værelse, måtte de samle deres tanker sammen for natten som fugle, der skal lokkes ind i deres bur. Det hændte, at en af dem ikke var deres egen, og så vidste de ikke, hvor de skulle gøre af den. I farten, for de var altid trætte, proppede de den om bag et skab eller ind mellem to bøger i reolen. Men når de vågnede, disse piger, passede tankerne ikke mere til deres ansigt, som havde opløst sig under søvnen ligesom en fastelavnsmaske, hvis stive pap er revnet og gennemvædet af den varme ånde. Med besvær tog de det nye ansigt på sig som en skæbne, og de blev svimle af at se ned på deres fødder, så stor var afstanden blevet i nattens løb.

ЛЮБЛЮ ТЕБЯ Люблю тебя за то, что ты на пламя, дрожащее при сквозняке, похож, за то, что, если счастья между нами я захочу, ты вспыхнешь и пройдешь. За то тебя люблю, что убедилась: без болтовни о браке, о венце любовь — такая прелесть, сладость, милость, что разве это заключишь в кольце? И хорошо, что мне не шить, не штопать, тебе моих обедов не ругать, твоим из ванной башмакам не топать, мне в кимоно на кухне не стоять. Мы только будем назначать свиданья и по ночам в гостиной танцевать. И я давать не буду обещанья, и нарушать их, и давать опять. В шелку вечернем средь дневного шума я праздничной останусь пред тобой, и, если будешь о минувшем думать, я эти думы озарю мечтой.

ОСЕНЬ Что в ливень уходит милый без шляпы и без пальто? Зачем он уходит ночью — не может понять никто. Звезды, его проводите, верен во тьме ваш строй. Вы сердце его узнали? Мы живы были мечтой. Вы видели, как он плачет? Без слез — лишь в горле комок. Ясные звезды, скажите, обидеть кто его мог? Волосы милого мокнут. Черной ночи боюсь. Далеко мой любимый. И осень, когда проснусь.

ДОЖДЬ Друзья приходили и уходили, с кровель мокрых текло; падают слезы, сочатся вяло, ты вошел — что-то сердце сжало — разве не все прошло? Дождь в мою открытую руку, намокшей зелени срез, шорох шагов и воды потоки, ребенок навстречу — не твой — на дороге улицей детства исчез. Монотонные ливня звуки гасят мелькнувший свет. Сумрак густеет слепком унылым, и туманом к продрогшим ивам тянется рук скелет. Так глубоко уснешь, что спросишь: может, все это сны? Градом стекает со спелых злаков, и во тьме плывет, сребролаков, лик молодой луны. Слезы смолкают — высокие звезды колоколами звонят. Ты, далекий, сияющей тенью, и в зарницах скупых мгновений крылья ночи блестят.

МОЕ ЛУЧШЕЕ ВРЕМЯ ДНЯ Мое лучшее время дня, когда я одна, когда память след ловит далекого воспоминанья - тогда детство смотрит мое с оснеженных ветвей окна и под веками солнечный свет превращает в сиянье. Там — утраченное, здесь будничный день мне грозит расписаньем дел на сегодня — я краду тишину, музы склоняется тень, прежде чем кухни предел встретит жаром меня преисподней. У меня есть свиданья, назначенные высоко, со знакомыми старого сна, но о них не узнают — книгу тихо беру, нахожу страницу легко — и поэт (он умер давно) прядью женщины милой играет. Пользы нет от меня никакой, и меня не поймут никак. Но в могильном покое души обновляется что-то — меньше сжатье, узды слабеет натяг, будто в рассветной тиши ветка дрожит от взлета.

КОЛЫБЕЛЬНАЯ Смотри, малыш: мы свет не погасили, и двери мы не будем закрывать, чтоб не вошли ночные злые силы, чтоб тьму из-за окошка не впускать. Все это было только в сновиденье. Не ведьма — я, и папа — не дракон. Его улыбка разгоняет тени, тролль убежал, и не вернется он. Я знаю страх, с которым ты столкнулся, трусишка милый, маленький глупыш... Ты пососал свой палец, улыбнулся, о страшном сне забыл и снова спишь. Но эти сны даются в наказанье, и непреодолим извечный страх. Вся повесть о страстях, грехе, страданье записана в младенческих чертах. Пока что, напевая и лаская, мы всякий твой кошмар развеем в дым, беспечным дням пока не видно края, и страх пока легко преодолим. Но час придет, и жуткие фантомы мы не отгоним ласкою своей. У нас в глазах увидя страх знакомый, поймешь, что люди нечисти страшней. Но в эту ночь мы света не погасим, твое сердечко нам растворено, и ужас заоконный неопасен, и злу сюда проникнуть не дано.

АВТОПОРТРЕТ 4 Старая дама живет на улице моего детства и помнит меня еще ребенком. Дикой была говорит она про меня и наш дом весь дрожал когда ты прыжками неслась с первого этажа на четвертый. Образ этот чем-то меня беспокоит и угрожает собственному моему о себе представленью будто кадры на пленке наезжают один на другой. Меня страшат воспоминания знакомых Они помнят детали которые я позабыла и крадут тот мой лик что не присущ мне более Со своим совмещают сопоставляют. Я не могу вспомнить ту старую даму из детства. Для меня все взрослые без возраста были все на одно лицо как негры. А у таинственной дамы знание есть обо мне тайна которой я избегаю касаться. Эта тайна ужасно ее занимает и отдаляет день смерти. Она ее свято хранит чтобы меня пережить. По лестницам я не носилась я тихим была ребенком я чувствую к ней отвращенье.

The fact that we are so incredibly uninterested in what is happening inside the person closest to us is probably the source of many problems.

And did she not have the courage to worship a man; had she chosen a woman.

A legtöbb felnőtt azt mondja, hogy boldog gyerekkora volt, és talán még el is hiszik, de nekem aztán mondhatják. Szerintem csak sikerült elfelejteniük.

Gitte almost never took baths. She had a black line under her chin because she would just rub the sponge across her face. Dirt was part of her view of life. You have to remember, she said, that penicillin is made from mold.

《青春：哥本哈根三部曲》頁201「我覺得自己就像這樣的一隻流浪狗，邋遢、困惑與孤獨。」

我覺得自己就像這樣的一隻流浪狗，邋遢、困惑與孤獨。

Peace meant not existing in other people’s consciousness.

She no longer belonged to herself. No matter where she sought refuge, people had unashamedly formed an image of her over which she had no control.

Throughout the whole long friendship, I’m always afraid of revealing myself to Ruth. I’m afraid that she’ll discover how I really am. I make myself into her echo because I love her and because she’s the strongest, but deep inside I am still me.

Childhood is long and narrow like a coffin, and you can’t get out of it on your own. It’s there all the time and everyone can see it just as clearly as you can see Pretty Ludvig’s harelip. [...] You can't get out of childhood, and it clings to you like a bad smell. You notice it in other children – each childhood has its own smell. You don't recognize your own and sometimes you're afraid that it's worse than others'. You’re standing talking to another girl whose childhood smells of coal and ashes, and suddenly she takes a step back because she has noticed the terrible stink of your childhood.

But you know what — it takes more bravery to worry about your neighbor's calluses than about the blacks in the Congo.

You can’t control your circumstances. You can’t control your fate. All you can do is avoid people whose words stir things up, secret things, that absolutely must not be stirred up.

steering her inner world. Few people, even once in their lives, dare to make the inexpressible real.

The sun was out. Right outside. It seemed as if its rays reached the windows with the best of intentions, but then had to give up, slide down the wall in vain, and return to space.

Children are so willing to be tricked to avoid the truth they don’t want to hear.

Why doesn’t it dawn on a person that their parents had their own lives separate from their children, until it’s too late to ask them how it was?

Her entire character consisted of a pile of memories without a pattern or a plan.

What does one person mean to another anyway, except when one forces the other to act?

Til dig der søgte ly hos en der var for angst og svag, nynner jeg skumringssang imellem nat og dag Liget af en vuggesang steg op af sindets dynd -lille liv der hverken kendte elskov eller synd. Lille liv der hverken havde øjne eller hår du, der uset måtte dø for drømmen af igår. Står du nu bland skyggerne imellem havens træer? Er det dig der banker på, når mørket rykker nær? Ordene gir genlyd i de natteøde sind, for den de ensomt kalder på er vingeløs og blind. Sunget af en barnløs mor, af fryd og sorg forladt, slår liget af en vuggesang mod stjernerne i nat.

Hadet kan vi glemme. Aldrig kærligheden.

... for meget mor, og for lidt menneske

Przyszła do niego, bo człowiek musi mieć takie miejsce na świecie, do którego może wracać. Coś w rodzaju domu dzieciństwa lub chociaż wspomnienia wielkiego poczucia bezpieczeństwa

To, że człowiek ma się kim zajmować, na kogo złościć na przykład albo kogo pogłaskać po policzku, albo z kim pogadać. To jest ważne.

I look up at the cloudless, silken sky and open the window in order to be even closer to it. It's as if God slowly lowers His gentle face over the earth and His great heart beats softly and calmly, very close to mine. I feel very happy, and long, melancholy lines of verse pass through my soul. They separate me, unwillingly, from those I should be closest to.

She is smaller than other adult women, younger than other mothers, and there’s a world outside my street that she fears. And whenever we both fear it together, she will stab me in the back.

Ole iloinen, jos edes unessa saat elää lapsuuden keväät.

...and the fear came back like a faithful friend who doesn't care whether return his feelings or not.

She stared at her friend as a feeling of total desolation slipped through her, as if she were drifting away on an ice floe without a single living person hearing her cries for help.

I want to be alone to dream about my happiness.

Der er mere grund til at sørge over mit liv end over min død.

It was enough for me anyway to write the poems; there was no hurry to show them to a world that so far had only laughed and scorned them.