from
Peer Gynt
by
Henrik Ibsen

Peer:

[...]

Repent? It might take years to fight my way through.

That would be a poor life;

To smash what is pure, precious and beautiful,

And piece it together from broken fragments.

You can do that with a fiddle, but not with a bell.

Where the grass would grow green, one mustn’t tread.

Peer:

You think it was a trifle unethical?

I felt the same myself—oh, very keenly.

I may even say I hated it.

But believe me, once you’ve begun, it’s hard to stop.

And I didn’t want to create unemployment.

Peer:

We Northern warriors know how to carry a battle

Through to its harsh conclusion. The key to life

Is simply this. Close your ear against

The infiltration of a dangerous serpent.

Cotton:

What serpent, my good friend?

Peer:

A little one that is most seductive.

The one that tempts you to commit yourself.

The art of success is to stand free

And uncommitted amid the snares of life.

To know that the day of battle is not the day

Of judgment. There are other days to come.

To know that a bridge always remains open

Behind you.

Peer:

[...]

The empty-fisted are always rash to gamble.

The man who scarcely owns the strip of earth

His shadow covers, is natural cannon fodder.

But when a man is as rich as I am,

He has much to lose.

Peer:

[...]

Oh, listen to me! Never mind other people.

The world can take care of itself for a while.

No, he’s not listening. He’s deaf as usual.

That’s charming! A God who won’t help when you need him.

Peer:

[...]

  To be oneself by the power of gold

Is simply to build one’s house upon sand.

If you’ve a gold watch and a diamond ring

People will fawn and grovel before you.

They’ll raise their hats to your glittering tiepin

But the ring and the pin are not the man.

Peer:

[...]

I had no intention of deceiving them.

Prophetic utterances are not lies.

Besides, I can always revise my interpretations.

Begriffenfeldt:

Beside oneself? No, there you’re quite mistaken.

Here we are ourselves with a vengeance;

Ourselves and nothing whatever but ourselves.

We go full steam through life under the pressure of self.

Each one shuts himself up in the cask of self,

Sinks to the bottom by self-fermentation,

Seals himself in with the bung of self,

And seasons in the well of self.

No one here weeps for the woes of others.

No one here listens to anyone else’s ideas.

We are ourselves, in thought and in deed,

Ourselves to the very limit of life’s springboard.