Tehreem

“The Listeners

'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor.
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:--
'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.”
― Walter de la Mare

“Often I've thought of myself as a state; a country or, at the very least, a city. It used to seem to me that the different ways I felt sometimes about ideas, courses of action and so on were like the differing political moods that countries go through. It has always seemed to me that people vote in a new government not because they actually agree with their politics but just because they want a change. Somehow they think that things will be better under the new lot. Well, people are stupid, but it all seems to have more to do with mood, caprice and atmosphere than carefully thought-out arguments. I can feel the same sort of thing going on in my head. Sometimes the thoughts and feelings I had didn't really agree with each other, so I decided I must be lots of different people inside my brain.”
― Iain Banks, The Wasp Factory

“NORA [looking earnestly and a little doubtfully at him]. Surely
if you let one woman cry on you like that you'd never let another
touch you.

BROADBENT [conscientiously]. One should not. One OUGHT not, my
dear girl. But the honest truth is, if a chap is at all a
pleasant sort of chap, his chest becomes a fortification that has
to stand many assaults: at least it is so in England.

NORA [curtly, much disgusted]. Then you'd better marry an
Englishwoman.

BROADBENT [making a wry face]. No, no: the Englishwoman is too
prosaic for my taste, too material, too much of the animated
beefsteak about her. The ideal is what I like. Now Larry's taste
is just the opposite: he likes em solid and bouncing and rather
keen about him. It's a very convenient difference; for we've
never been in love with the same woman.

NORA. An d'ye mean to tell me to me face that you've ever been in
love before?

BROADBENT. Lord! yes.

NORA. I'm not your first love?

BROADBENT. First love is only a little foolishness and a lot of
curiosity: no really self-respecting woman would take advantage
of it. No, my dear Nora: I've done with all that long ago. Love
affairs always end in rows. We're not going to have any rows:
we're going to have a solid four-square home: man and wife:
comfort and common sense--and plenty of affection, eh [he puts
his arm round her with confident proprietorship]?

NORA [coldly, trying to get away]. I don't want any other woman's
leavings.

BROADBENT [holding her]. Nobody asked you to, ma'am. I never
asked any woman to marry me before.

NORA [severely]. Then why didn't you if you're an honorable man?

BROADBENT. Well, to tell you the truth, they were mostly married
already. But never mind! there was nothing wrong. Come! Don't
take a mean advantage of me. After all, you must have had a fancy
or two yourself, eh?”
― George Bernard Shaw, John Bull's Other Island

“Maybe ever’body in the whole damn world is scared of each other.”
― John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men