Karen Blixen: If I know a song of Africa, of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back, of the plows in the fields and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that I have had on, or the children invent a game in which my name is, or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me, or will the eagles of the Ngong Hills look out for me?
Baron Bror Blixen: You could have asked, Denys.
Denys: I did. She said yes.
Berkeley Cole: He likes giving gifts... but not at Christmas.
Baron Bror Blixen: That's a fine kiss goodbye.
Karen Blixen: I'm better at hello.
Kamante: I think that you had better get up. I think that God is coming.
Karen Blixen: Perhaps he knew, as I did not, that the Earth was made round so that we would not see too far down the road.
Denys: I like animals. Nothing they do is half-hearted. Everything they do is for the first time: they hunt, they eat, they mate.
Karen Blixen: He even took the gramophone on safari. Three rifles, supplies for a month, and Mozart.
Denys: I won't be closer to you and I won't love you more because of a piece of paper.
Karen Blixen: It's an odd feeling, farewell. There is such envy in it. Men go off to be tested, for courage. And if we're tested at all, it's for patience, for doing without, for how well we can endure loneliness.