between a strumpet's legs to lie is the life for which i sigh.
up above is god almighty so very far away, but your brother the devil you will meet on every level.
in frjestad everyone was talking about evil omens and other horrible things. two horses had eaten each other in the night, and, in the churchyard, graves had been opened and the remains of corpses scattered all over the place. yesterday afternoon there were as many as four suns in the heavens.
not exactly.
nothing.
no, sir, i wouldn't say that. as a matter of fact, he was quite eloquent.
he was eloquent, all right. the trouble is that what he had to say was most depressing. one moment you're bright and lively, the next you're crawling with worms. fate is a terrible villain and you, my friend, its poor victim.
no.
what is this supposed to represent?
and that one is death?
why do you paint such nonsense?
well, it's not going to make them feel any happier.
then they'll close their eyes and refuse to look at your painting.
if you do scare them .
and if they think .
and then they'll run right into the arms of the priests.
you're only painting your dance of death.
just think how some people will curse you.
the plague. that sounds horrible.
that looks terrible.
scare? me? you don't know me. what are the horrors you've painted over there?
do they really whip themselves?
do you have any brandy? i've been drinking water all day and it's made me as thirsty as a camel in the desert.
me and my master have been abroad and have just come home. do you understand, you little pictor?
precisely. for ten years we sat in the holy land and let snakes bite us, flies sting us, wild animals eat us, heathens butcher us, the wine poison us, the women give us lice, the lice devour us, the fevers rot us, all for the glory of god. our crusade was such madness that only a real idealist could have thought it up. but what you said about the plague was horrible.
ah, me. no matter which way you turn, you have your rump behind you. that's the truth.
this is squire jns. he grins at death, mocks the lord, laughs at himself and leers at the girls. his world is a jnsworld, believable only to himself, ridiculous to all including himself, meaningless to heaven and of no interest to hell.
that soup of yours has a hell of a stink. what is it good for?
and now she's in the stocks.
and you do that with this stinking mess?
neither can i.
i recognize you, although it's a long time since we met. your name is raval, from the theological college at roskilde. you are dr. mirabilis, coelestis et diabilis.
am i not right?
you were the one who, ten years ago, convinced my master of the necessity to join a better- class crusade to the holy land.
you look uncomfortable. do you have a stomach- ache?
when i see you, i suddenly understand the meaning of these ten years, which previously seemed to me such a waste. our life was too good and we were too satisfied with ourselves. the lord wanted to punish us for our complacency. that is why he sent you to spew out your holy venom and poison the knight.
but now you know better, don't you? because now you have turned into a thief. a more fitting and rewarding occupation for scoundrels. isn't that so?
by all means. i'm not bloodthirsty.
i don't have the heart to touch you, doctor. but remember this: the next time we meet, i'll brand your face the way one does with thieves. what i really came for is to get my waterskin filled.
jns is my name. i am a pleasant and talkative young man who has never had anything but kind thoughts and has only done beautiful and noble deeds. i'm kindest of all to young women. with them, there is no limit to my kindness.
goodbye, my girl. i could very well have raped you, but between you and me, i'm tired of that kind of love. it runs a little dry in the end.
now that i think of it, i will need a housekeeper. can you prepare good food? as far as i know, i'm still a married man, but i have high hopes that my wife is dead by now. that's why i need a housekeeper. the devil with it! come along and don't stand there staring. i've saved your life, so you owe me a great deal.
this damned ranting about doom. is that food for the minds of modern people? do they really expect us to take them seriously?
yes, now you grin at me, my lord. but allow me to point out that i've either read, heard or experienced most of the tales which we people tell each other.
even the ghost stories about god the father, the angels, jesus christ and the holy ghost -- all these i've accepted without too much emotion.
my little stomach is my world, my head is my eternity, and my hands, two wonderful suns. my legs are time's damned pendulums, and my dirty feet are two splendid starting points for my philosophy. everything is worth precisely as much as a belch, the only difference being that a belch is more satisfying.
what are you screaming about?
that's possible.
no, i haven't. but if i had seen her and she looked like you, i'd quickly forget that i'd seen her.
maybe she's run off.
i know quite a lot, but not about your wife. go to the inn. maybe they can help you.
do you remember what i was going to do to you if we met again?
i'm a man who keeps his word.
by all means. i write little songs myself. for example, i know a very funny song about a wanton fish which i doubt that you've heard yet.
you'll not get to hear it either. there are persons here who don't appreciate my art and i don't want to upset anyone. i'm a sensitive soul.
god in heaven, isn't this plog, the smith?
are you sitting here sniveling in loneliness?
if i were in your boots, i'd be happy to get rid of a wife in such an easy way.
i! a hundred times and more. i can't keep count of all my wives any longer. but it's often that way when you're a traveling man.
yes, it's hell with women and hell without them. so, however you look at it, it's still best to kill them off while it's most amusing.
why don't you kiss me good night?
why don't you love me the way you did when we first met?
you only turn your back and snore.
oh hell. and now she's gone. rejoice!
look how he howls again.
so, maybe you love her! then, you poor misguided ham shank, i'll tell you that love is another word for lust, plus lust, plus lust and a damn lot of cheating, falseness, lies and all kinds of other fooling around.
of course. love is the blackest of all plagues, and if one could die of it, there would be some pleasure in love. but you almost always get over it.
yes, you too. there are only a couple of poor wretches who die of love once in a while. love is as contagious as a cold in the nose. it eats away at your strength, your independence, your morale, if you have any. if everything is imperfect in this imperfect world, love is most perfect in its perfect imperfection.
believe! who said that i believed it? but i love to give good advice. if you ask me for advice you'll get two pieces for the price of one, because after all i really am an educated man.
only if you don't whimper all the time, because in that case we'll all have to avoid you.
yes, but now he's just sniveling.
that's good. now we can see the road better.
that's because there's no wind.
if one could hear a fox at least.
or a human voice besides one's own.
where are you going?
yes, now i can see. it's the girl who has done it with the black one. the witch?
why do you burn her at this time of night? people have so few diversions these days.
you are eight brave men, then.
for a moment i thought of killing the soldiers, but it would do no good. she's nearly dead already.
what does she see? can you tell me?
you don't answer my question. who watches over that child? is it the angels, or god, or the devil, or only the emptiness? emptiness, my lord!
look at her eyes, my lord. her poor brain has just made a discovery. emptiness under the moon.
we stand powerless, our arms hanging at our sides, because we see what she sees, and our terror and hers are the same. that poor little child. i can't stand it, i can't stand it .
don't scream. what came over you?
now it starts again.
get up, you tear-drenched pig. we'll lose the others.
saints almighty, stop! you're a very bad poet, despite the fact that you're drunk. and your vegetable garden bores me.
do you see something?
i don't see anything.
hell, he's an actor.
we must go on.
soon dawn will come, but the heat continues to hang over us like a smothering blanket.
maybe it's the day of judgment.
don't come here. if you do i'll slit your throat. keep to the other side of the tree.
it's no use. it's no use. i know that it's no use. it's meaningless. it's totally meaningless. i tell you that it's meaningless. can't you hear that i'm consoling you?
no, my lord. i saw no one.
in the darkness where you are supposed to be, where all of us probably are.  in the darkness you will find no one to listen to your cries or be touched by your sufferings. wash your tears and mirror yourself in your indifference.
i could have given you an herb to purge you of your worries about eternity. now it seems to be too late. but in any case, feel the immense triumph of this last minute when you can still roll your eyes and move your toes.
i shall be silent, but under protest.