Tove Jansson Summer Book Quotes

One summer morning at sunrise a long time ago I met a little girl with a book under her arm. I asked her why she was out so early and she answered that there were too many books and far too little time. And there she was absolutely right.

It was a particularly good evening to begin a book.

It's funny about love', Sophia said. 'The more you love someone, the less he likes you back.' 'That's very true,' Grandmother observed. 'And so what do you do?' 'You go on loving,' said Sophia threateningly. 'You love harder and harder.

It is still summer, but the summer is no longer alive. It has come to a standstill; nothing withers, and fall is not ready to begin. There are no stars yet, just darkness.

The thing about God, she thought, is that He usually does help, but not until you've made an effort on your own.

Smell is important. It reminds a person of all the things he's been through; it is a sheath of memories and security.

Gathering is peculiar, because you see nothing but what you're looking for. If you're picking raspberries, you see only what's red, and if you're looking for bones you see only the white. No matter where you go, the only thing you see is bones.

Why are you in such a rush?" Sophia asked, and her grandmother answered that it was a good idea to do things before you forgot that they had to be done.

A very long time ago, Grandmother had wanted to tell about all the things they did, but no one had bothered to ask. And now she had lost the urge.

Wise as she was, she realized that people can postpone their rebellious phases until they're eighty-five years old, and she decided to keep an eye on herself.

Every year, the bright Scandinavian summer nights fade without anyone's noticing. One evening in August you have an errand outdoors, and all of a sudden it's pitch-black. It is still summer, but the summer is no longer alive.

She started thinking about all the euphemisms for death, all the anxious taboos that had always fascinated her. It was too bad you could never have an intelligent discussion on the subject. People were either too young or too old, or else they didn't have time.

An island can be dreadful for someone from outside. Everything is complete, and everyone has his obstinate, sure and self-sufficient place. Within their shores, everything functions according to rituals that are as hard as rock from repetition, and at the same time they amble through their days as whimsically and casually as if the world ended at the horizon.

And all you can do is just read," she said. She raised her voice an screamed, "You just read and read and read!" Then she threw herself down on the table and wept.

Sometimes people never saw things clearly until it was too late and they no longer had the strength to start again. Or else they forgot their idea along the way and didn't even realize that they had forgotten

you can't depend on people who just let things happen

For a while she considered being ill, but she changed her mind...

Even potted plants got to be a responsibility, like everything else you took care of that couldn't make decisions for itself.

My dear child," said Grandmother impatiently, "every human being has to make his own mistakes." She was very tired, and wanted to get home.

It's funny about me,' Sophia said. 'I always feel like such a nice girl whenever there's a storm.' "'You do?' Grandmother said. 'Well, maybe ...' Nice, she thought. No. I'm certainly not nice. The best you could say of me is that I'm interested. [pp. 150-151]

I can dive", Sophia said. "Do you know what it feels like when you dive?" Of course I do," her grandmother said. "You let go of everything and get ready and just dive. You can feel the seaweed against your legs. It's brown, and the water's clear, lighter towards the top, with lots of bubbles. And you glide. You hold your breath and glide and turn and come up, let yourself rise and breathe out. And then you float. Just float." And all the time with your eyes open," Sophia said. Naturally. People don't dive with their eyes shut." Do you believe I can dive without me showing you?" the child asked. Yes, of course", Grandmother said.

Grandmother walked up over the bare granite and thought about birds in general. It seemed to her no other creature had the same dramatic capacity to underline and perfect events -- the shifts in the seasons and the weather, the changes that run through people themselves. p.33

It's a funny thing about bogs. You can fill them with rocks and sand and old logs and make a little fenced-in yard on top with a woodpile and chopping block - but bogs go right on behaving like bogs. Early in the spring they breathe ice and make their own mist, in remembrance of the time when they had black water and their own sedge blossoming untouched.

Only farmers and summer guests walk on the moss. What they don't know - and it cannot be repeated too often - is that moss is terribly frail. Step on it once and it rises the next time it rains. The second time, it doesn't rise back up. And the third time you step on moss, it dies.

Small animals are a great problem. I wish God had never created small animals, or else that He had made them so they could talk, or else that He'd given them better faces. Space. Take moths. They fly at the lamp and burn themsleves, and then they fly right back again. It can't be instinct, because it isn't the way it works. They just don't understand, so they go right on doing it. Then they lie on their backs and all their legs quiver, and then they're dead. Did you get all that? Does it sound good?" "Very good," Grandmother said. Sophia stood up and shouted, "Say this: say I hate everything that dies slow! Say I hate everything that won't let you help! Did you write that?

Sophia and Grandmother sat down by the shore to discuss the matter further. It was a pretty day, and the sea was running a long, windless swell. It was on days just like this--dog days--that boats went sailing off all by themselves. Large, alien objects made their way in from sea, certain things sank and others rose, milk soured, and dragonflies danced in desperation. Lizards were not afraid. When the moon came up, red spiders mated on uninhabited skerries, where the rock became an unbroken carpet of tiny, ecstatic spiders.

Commonplace things can be fascinating.

Seine Gedanken oder plötzlichen Wünsche flogen wie die Laune des Meeres über das Wasser, mal hierhin, mal dorthin, und er lebte ununterbrochen in einer stillen Spannung.

София се възползва от най-лесния изход за нуждаещите се и ужасените - тя заспа.

a person can also find solitude with others, though it is more difficult

I know I do everything. I've been doing everything for an awfully long time, and I've seen and lived as hard as I could, and it's been unbelievable, I tell you, unbelievable. But now I have the feeling everything is gliding away from me, and I don't remember, and I don't care, and yet now is right when I need it.

Irrational terror is so hard to deal with.

No well-bred person goes ashore on someone else's island when there's no one home. But if they put up a sign, then you do it anyway, because it's a slap in the face

Не гледай толкова ядосано - прошепна бабата. - Това е социален живот и трябва да се изтърпи.

It's funny about love, the more you love someone, the less he likes you back. And so, what do you do? You go on loving, you love harder and harder.

Now everything was changed. She walked about with cautious, anxious steps, staring constantly at the ground, on the lookout for things that crept and crawled. Bushes were dangerous, and so were sea grass and rain water. There were little animals everywhere. They could turn up between the covers of a book, flattened and dead, for the fact is that creeping animals, tattered animals, and dead animals are with us all our lives, from beginning to end. Grandmother tried to discuss this with her, to no avail. Irrational terror is so hard to deal with. [p. 136]

Det är underligt med kärlek, sa Sophia. Ju mer man älskar den andra dess mindre tycker den andra om en. Det är alldeles riktigt, anmärkte farmorn. Och vad gör man då? Man fortsätter att älska, svarade Sophia hotfullt. Man älskar värre och värre.

Тя се обърна към стената и продължи да чете книгата си. И двете бяха станали невъзможни и вече не можеха да общуват помежду си, караха се неправилно.

... всеки трябва сам да направи своите грешки.

Even potted plants got to be a responsibility, like everything else you took care of that couldn’t make decisions for itself.

Of course it [the robe] smelled -- that was part of its charm. Smell is important. It reminds a person of all the things he's been though; it is a sheath of memories and security.

There is nothing sentimental about this world. Like the weather, this world asks only to be acknowledged. There is nothing comforting about it, and yet if you are afraid to see it in its own terms and look to it for comfort, for solace, you will be left worse off than you were before.

Is it true you were born i the eighteen-hundreds?" Sophia yelled through the window. "What of it?" Grandmother answered, very distinctly. "What do you know about the eighteen-hundreds?" "Nothing, and i'm not interested, either," Sophia shouted and ran away.

She started thinking about all the euphemisms for death, all the anxious taboos that had always fascinated her. It was too bad you could never have an intelligent discussion on the subject. People were either too young or too old, or else they didn’t have time. Now

Grandmother had had to be frugal all her life, and so she had a weakness for extravagance. She watched the basin and the barrels and every crevice in the granite fill with water and overflow. She looked at the mattresses out being aired and the dishes that were washing themselves. She sighed contentedly, and, absorbed in thought, she filled a coffee cup with precious drinking water and poured it over a daisy.

That’s strange, Grandmother thought. I can’t describe things any more. I can’t find the words, or maybe it’s just that I’m not trying hard enough. It was such a long time ago. No one here was even born. And unless I tell it because I want to, it’s as if it never happened; it gets closed off and then it’s lost.

Един остров може да бъде ужасен за човек, дошъл отвън. Всичко е завършено, всеки има своето място, своенравно, спокойно и самодостатъчно. Между бреговете му всичко тече според ритуали, вкаменени от повторение, и в същото време обитателите му прекарват дните си толкова непостоянно и случайно, сякаш светът свършва зад хоризонта.

One evening, Sophia wrote a letter and stuck it under the door. It said, "I hate you. With warm personal wishes, Sophia.

Love and kisses to those too old and too young to come to the party.

Lastovičky poctia svojou prítomnosťou len domy, kde sú ľudia šťastní.

To the final landscape of our old age, as summer fades...Silence settles around us, each of us wanders his own way, and yet we all meet by the sea in the peaceful sunset.

Kuun noustessa punaiset hämähäkit pariutuvat asumattomilla luodoilla, koko kallio on yhtä ja samaa tiuhaa hämähäkkimattoa, jossa vilisee pieniä, hurmioituneita olioita.

He just wants to be left alone, but he doesn't know it yet.

You can see for yourself that life is hard enough without being punished for it afterwards. We get comfort when we die, that’s the whole idea.

Every year, the bright Scandinavian summer nights fade away without anyone’s noticing. One evening in August you have an errand outdoors, and all of a sudden it’s pitch-black. A great warm, dark silence surrounds the house. It is still summer, but the summer is no longer alive. It has come to a standstill; nothing withers, and fall is not ready to begin. There are no stars yet, just darkness.

Sophia," she said, "this is really not something to argue about. You can see for yourself that life is hard enough without being punished for it afterwards. We get comfort when we die, that's the whole idea

Sophia thought about the bathrobe more and more. The thing living in it was as quick as lightning but could lie in wait for days without moving. It could make itself thin and slide through a crack in the door, and then roll itself up again and crawl under the bed like a shadow. It didn't eat and never slept and hated everyone, most of all its own family. Sophia didn't eat either, that is, nothing but sandwiches.

Siinä on jotakin hyvin hienoa, kun saa kokea viimeisen vanhuutensa maiseman katoavassa kesässä. Ympärillä tyyntyy, itse kukin vaeltaa omaa tietään, mutta kaikki me kohtaamme meren rannalla tyynessä iltaruskossa.

When the kite was finished, it refused to fly and kept slamming into the ground as if it wanted to destroy itself, and finally it threw itself in the march. Sophia put it outside Grandmother's door and went away.

Sophia," she said, "this is really not something to argue about. You can see for yourself that life is hard enough without being punished for it afterwards. We get comfort when we die, that's the whole idea." "It's not hard at all!" Sophia shouted. "And what are you going to do about the Devil, then? He lives in Hell!" For a moment Grandmother considered saying that there was no Devil either, but she didn't want to be mean.

Grandmother sat in the magic forest and carved outlandish animals. She cut them from branches and driftwood and gave them paws and faces, but she only hinted at what they looked like and never made them too distinct. They retained their wooden souls...

- Странно нещо е любовта - каза София. -Колкото повече обичаш другия,толкова по-малко те харесва той. - Съвсем правилно - отбеляза бабата. - А какво се прави в такъв случай? - Продължаваш да обичаш - отговори София заплашително. - Обичаш все повече и повече. Баба ѝ въздъхна и не каза нищо.

In the middle of the gravel was a large sign with black latters that said PRIVATE PROPERTY--NO TRESPASSING. "We'll go ashore," Grandma said. She was very angry. Sophia looked frightened. "There's a big difference," her grandmother explained. "No well-bred person goes ashore on someone else's island when there's no one home. But if they put up a sign, then you do it anyway, because it's a slap in the face.

Who's he going to outwit?" Sophia asked. "Relatives." Grandmother said. "Nasty relatives. They tell him what to do without asking him what he wants, and so there's nothing at all he really does want.

They retained their wooden souls, and the curve of their backs had the enigmatic shape of growth itself and remained a part of the decaying forest

An island can be dreadful for someone from outside. Everything is complete, and everyone has his obstinate, sure and self-sufficient place. Within their shores, everything functions according to rituals that are as hard as rock from repetition, and at the same time they amble through their days as whimsically and casually as if the world ended at the horizon.

There were little animals everywhere. They could turn up between the covers of a book, flattened and dead, for the fact is that creeping animals, tattered animals, and dead animals are with us all our lives, from beginning to end.

more compact and self-assured. An island can be dreadful for someone from outside. Everything is complete, and everyone has his obstinate, sure and self-sufficient place. Within their shores, everything functions according to rituals that are as hard as rock from repetition, and at the same time they amble through their days as whimsically and casually as if the world ended at the horizon.

Gathering is peculiar, because you see nothing but what you’re looking for. If you’re picking raspberries, you see only what’s red, and if you’re looking for bones you see only the white. No matter where you go, the only thing you see is bones. Sometimes they are as thin as needles, extremely fine and delicate, and have to be handled with great care. Sometimes they are large, heavy thighbones, or a cage of ribs buried in the sand like the timbers of a shipwreck. Bones come in a thousand shapes and every one of them has its own structure.

I understand how awful it is. Here you come, headlong, into a tight little group of people who have always lived together, who have the habit of moving around each other on land they know and own and understand, and every threat to what they're used to only makes them still more compact and self-assured. An island can be dreadful for someone from outside. Everything is complete, and everyone has his obstinate, sure, and self-sufficient place. Within their shores, everything functions according to rituals that are hard as rock from repetition, and at the same time they amble through their days as whimsically and casually as if the world ended at the horizon.

Grandmother thought for a moment, and then she said that superstitious was when you didn’t try to explain things that couldn’t be explained.

Det er rart med kjærligheten, sa Sophia. Jo mer man elsker en annen, desto mindre liker den andre deg. Det er ganske riktig, bemerket farmoren. Og hva gjør man da? Man fortsetter å elske, svarte Sophia truende. Man elsker verre og verre.

Sophia stood up and shouted, "Say this: say I hate everything that dies slow! Say I hate everything that won't let you help!

Keskelle soravallia johtaja oli pistänyt ison taulun, jossa oli mustilla kirjaimilla: Yksityisalue. Maihinnousu kielletty. Me menemme maihin, sanoi isoäiti, hän oli hyvin vihainen. Sophia näytti pelästyneeltä. Siinä on suuri ero, hänen isoäitinsä selitti. Kukaan hyvin kasvatettu ihminen ei mene maihin toisen saareen, kun se on tyhjänä. Mutta jos ne pystyttävät taulun, niin silloin mennään, sillä se on haaste. Niin tietysti, Sophia sanoi, hän kartutti vakavasti elämäntuntemustaan. He kiinnittivät veneensä tauluun.

Her carvings became more and more numerous. They clung to trees or sat astride the branches, they rested against the trunks or settled into the ground. With outstretched arms, they sank in the marsh, or they curled up quietly and slept by a root. Sometimes they were only a profile in the shadows, and sometimes there were two or three together, entwined in battle or in love. Grandmother worked only in old wood that had already found its form. That is, she saw and selected those pieces of wood that expressed what she wanted them to say. One time she found a big white vertebra in the sand. It was too hard to work but could not have been made any prettier anyway, so she put it in the magic forest as it was. She found more bones, white or grey, all washed ashore by the sea. “What is it you’re doing?” Sophia asked. “I’m playing,” Grandmother said. Sophia crawled into the magic forest and saw everything her grandmother had done. “Is it an exhibit?” she asked. But Grandmother said it had nothing to do with sculpture, sculpture was another thing completely.

It’s funny about love", Sophia said. "The more you love someone, the less he likes you back." "That’s very true," Grandmother observed. "And so what do you do?" "You go on loving," said Sophia threateningly. "You love harder and harder.

It was an early, very warm morning in July, and it had rained during the night. The bare granite steamed, the moss and crevices were drenched with moisture, and all the colors everywhere had deepened. Below the veranda, the vegetation in the morning shade was like a rain forest of lush, evil leaves and flowers ...

Malander had an idea and was trying to work it out, but it would take him time. Sometimes people never saw things clearly until it was too late and they no longer had the strength to start again. Or else they forgot their idea along the way and didn't even didn't even realize they had forgotten.

It's funny about love," Sophia said. "The more you love someone, the less he likes you back." "That's very true," Grandmother observed. "And so what do you do?" "You go on loving," Sophia said threateningly. "You love harder and harder." Her grandmother sighed and said nothing.

The arabesques sank into the ground and turned green with moss, and the trees slipped deeper and deeper into each other's arms as time went by.

Dobre vieš, že život je sám o sebe dosť ťažký, než aby bol potom človek zaň trestaný. Moje dieťa, aj keby som sa akokoľvek snažila, nemôžem vo svojom veku začať veriť v diabla. Ty môžeš veriť, čomu chceš, ale musíš sa naučiť byť tolerantná.

Gathering is peculiar, because you see nothing but what you’re looking for.

Berenice’s drawing was good. It had been done in a kind of painstaking fury, and depicted a creature with a black hole for a face. This creature was moving forward with its shoulders hunched. Its arms were long scalloped wings, like those on a bat. They began near its neck and dragged on the ground on either side, a prop or perhaps a hindrance for the vague, boneless body.