Added: Gaetano Espinal - Date: 06.02.2022 05:59 - Views: 18940 - Clicks: 1367
Goodre helps you follow your favorite authors. Be the first to learn about new releases! Follow Author. Why am I afraid to live, I who love life and the beauty of flesh and the living colors of the earth and sky and sea? Why am I afraid to love, I who love love? As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must be a little in love with death! Nothing else matters: that is the only question.
If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and crushing you to the earth, be drunken continually.
Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. But be drunken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue. Or any of the other places down the avenue. Everything looked and sounded unreal. Nothing was what it is. Out beyond the harbor, where the road runs along the beach, I even lost the feeling of being on land.
The fog and the sea seemed part of each other.
It was like walking on the bottom of the sea. As if I had drowned long ago. As if I was the ghost belonging to the fog, and the fog was the ghost of the sea. It felt damned peaceful to be nothing more than a ghost within a ghost. Want to hear mine? They're all connected with the sea. Here's one. When I was on the Squarehead square rigger, bound for Buenos Aires. Full moon in the Trades. The old hooker driving fourteen knots. I lay on the bowsprit, facing astern, with the water foaming into spume under me, the masts with every sail white in the moonlight, towering high above me.
I became drunk with the beauty and ing rhythm of it, and for a moment I lost myself -- actually lost my life. I was set free! I dissolved in the sea, became white sails and flying spray, became beauty and rhythm, became moonlight and the ship and the high dim-starred sky! I belonged, without past or future, within peace and unity and a wild joy, within something greater than my own life, or the life of Man, to Life itself!
To God, if you want to put it that way. Then another time, on the American Line, when I was lookout on the crow's nest in the dawn watch. A calm sea, that time.
Only a lazy ground swell and a slow drowsy roll of the ship. The passengers asleep and none of the crew in sight. No sound of man. Black smoke pouring from the funnels behind and beneath me. Dreaming, not keeping looking, feeling alone, and above, and apart, watching the dawn creep like a painted dream over the sky and sea which slept together. Then the moment of ecstatic freedom came. And several other times in my life, when I was swimming far out, or lying alone on a beach, I have had the same experience. Became the sun, the hot sand, green seaweed anchored to a rock, swaying in the tide. Like a saint's vision of beatitude.
Like a veil of things as they seem drawn back by an unseen hand. For a second you see -- and seeing the secret, are the secret. For a second there is meaning! Then the hand lets the veil fall and you are alone, lost in the fog again, and you stumble on toward nowhere, for no good reason!
It was a great mistake, my being born a man, I would have been much more successful as a sea gull or a fish. As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a a little in love with death! Yes, Looking for love satisfied with Eugene the makings of a poet in you all right. But that's morbid craziness about not being wanted and loving death. No, I'm afraid I'm like the guy who is always panhandling for a smoke. He hasn't even got the makings. He's got only the habit. I couldn't touch what I tried to tell you just now.
I just stammered. That's the best I'll ever do, I mean, if I live. Well, it will be faithful realism, at least. Stammering is the native eloquence of us fog people. As the history of the world proves, the truth has no bearing on anything. It's irrelevant and immaterial, as the lawyers say.
The lie of a pipe dream is what gives life to the whole misbegotten mad lot of us, drunk or sober. I belonged, without past or future, within peace and unity and a wild joy, within something greater than my own life, or the life of Man, to Life itself!.
And several other times in my life, when I was swimming far out, or lying alone on a beach, I have had the same experience, became the sun, the hot sand, green seaweed anchored to a rock, swaying in the tide. Like the veil of things as they seem drawn back by an unseen hand.
For a second you see, and seeing the secret, you are the secret. Then the hand lets the veil fall and you are alone, lost in the fog again, and you stumble on towards nowhere for no good reason.
It's the future, too. We all try to lie out of that but life won't let us.
I really love fog. You feel that everything has changed, and nothing is what it seemed to be. No one can find or touch you any more. For a second you see—and seeing the secret, are the secret. I kin read them in folks' eyes. I knew it. Born in a hotel room - and God damn it - died in a hotel room.
They'll do anything They'll sell their souls. What's worse, they'll sell yours, and you never know it till one day you find yourself in hell. Enter Ophelia! All Quotes Add A Quote. Books by Eugene O'Neill. Long Day's Journey into Night 36, ratings. The Iceman Cometh 8, ratings. Mourning Becomes Electra 4, ratings. A Moon for the Misbegotten 3, ratings.
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