knew anything of father. I don't remember anything about him except—that he once made me sick.
Mrs. Alving. That's a terrible way to speak!
Should not a son love his father, all the same?
Oswald. When a son has nothing to thank his
father for? has never known him? Do you really cling to the old superstition?—you who are so enlightened in other ways?
Mrs. Alving. Is that only a superstition?
In truth, a superstition—one that is kept like the sword of
Damocles over the child who does not ask to be given life, and
is yet tied with a thousand chains to those who bring him into
a cheerless, joyless, and wretched world.
The voice of Henrik Ibsen in "Ghosts" sounds like the
trumpets before the walls of Jericho. Into the remotest nooks
and corners reaches his voice, with its thundering indictment
of our moral cancers, our social poisons, our hideous crimes against
unborn and born victims. Verily a more revolutionary condemnation
has never been uttered in dramatic form before or since the great
Henrik Ibsen.
We need, therefore, not be surprised at the vile abuse and denunciation heaped upon Ibsen's head by the Church, the State, and other moral eunuchs. But the spirit of Henrik Ibsen could not be
