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127 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1884
If he loves The Wild Duck and he wishes he had written it, he wants to be Ibsen for just that moment, and dedicate his play to someone who's been kind to him, is that lying? It isn't as bad as people doing work they have no respect for at all. Everybody has that feeling when they look at a work of art and it's right, that sudden familiarity, a sort of... recognition, as though they were creating it themselves, as though it were being created through them while they look at it or listen to it and, it shouldn't be sinful to want to have created beauty?
Gregers. If I should choose, I should like best to be a clever dog.
Gina. A dog!
Hedvig. (Involuntarily) Oh, no!
Gregers. Yes, an amazingly clever dog; one that goes to the bottom after wild ducks when they dive and bite themselves fast in tangle and sea-weed, down among the ooze.
Gregers. Not exactly to that. I don't say that your wing has been broken; but you have strayed into a poisonous marsh, Hialmar; an insidious disease has taken hold of you, and you have sunk down to die in the dark.
Relling. Oh, life would be quite tolerable, after all, if only we could be rid of the confounded duns that keep on pestering us, in our poverty, with the claim of the ideal.
ا"از یه آدم دروغ زندگیش رو بگیر، اونوقت خوشبختی یک دفعه تو وجودش میشکنه"ا
ولی میدونی، جرئت میخواست توی یه همچون وضعیتی آدم زندگی رو انتخاب کنه.