Among The Delights Of Summer Were Picnics

That A Literature In Our Time Is Living Is Shown In That Way That It Debates Problems.

Forgetfulness, The Unhistorical, Is ... The Atmosphere, In Which Alone Life Can Come Into Being. In Order To Understand It, Let Us Imagine A Youth Who Is Seized With A Passion For A Woman, Or A Man Who Is Swayed By A Passion For His Work. In Both Cases What Lies Behind Them Has Ceased To Exist And Yet This State (the Most Unhistorical That Can Be Imagined) Is That In Which Every Action, Every Great Deed Is Conceived And Accomplished.

Six Hours A Day I Lived Under School Discipline In Active Intercourse With People None Of Whom Were Known To Those At Home, And The Other Hours Of The Twenty-four I Spent At Home, Or With Relatives Of The People At Home, None Of Whom Were Known To Anybody At School.

He Who Does Not Understand A Joke, He Does Not Understand Danish.

The Historian Is Looked Upon As Objective When He Measures The Past By The Popular Opinions Of His Own Time, As Subjective When He Does Not Take These Opinions For Models. That Man Is Thought Best Fitted To Depict A Period Of The Past, Who Is Not In The Least Affected By That Period. But Only He Who Has A Share In Building Up The Future Can Grasp What The Past Has Been, And Only When Transformed Into A Work Of Art Can History Arouse Or Even Sustain Instincts.