I’m like you in that, can’t stay away from it, but I never go in, no, I think the last time I went in was with you. [Pause.] Just be near it. [Pause.] Today it’s calm, but I often hear it above in the house and walking the roads and start talking, oh just loud enough to drown it, nobody notices. [Pause.] But I’d be talking now no matter where I was, I once went to Switzerland to get away from the cursed thing and never stopped all the time I was there. [Pause.] I usen’t to need anyone, just to myself, stories, there was a great one about an old fellow named Bolton, I never finished it, I never finished any of them, I never finished anything, everything always went on for ever.
— Excerpt from Embers: A Piece for Radio by Samuel Beckett.
Currently listening to Marc Chalosse’s remix of Antonin Artaud’s “Pour en finir avec le jugement de Dieu” (“To Have Done with the Judgement of God”).
My roommates are going to drop me off at an asylum any day now.
CORA is arranging a bouquet of flowers in a vase, the vase being a big schooner glass from the bar, on top of the piano. CHUCK sits in a chair at the foot (left) of the banquet table. He has turned it so he can watch her.
— The Iceman Cometh by Eugene O’Neill
The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat As Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of The Marquis de Sade, A Play by Peter Weiss
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Want to see this play more than anything else in the world. Also, a related book:
The Marat/Sade Journals by Barron Storey
The fog was where I wanted to be. Halfway down the path you can’t see this house. You’d never know it was here. Or any of the other places down the avenue. I couldn’t see but a few feet ahead. I didn’t meet a soul. Everything looked and sounded unreal. Nothing was what it is. That’s what I wanted - to be alone with myself in another world where truth is untrue and life can hide from itself. 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 a 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.
— Long Day’s Journey Into Night by Eugene O’Neill
