Monologues
What I wish? What? — — Oh, there are so many wishes, and their host is so eager for a sally, that at times it seems that by their inward agitation my brain will burn and my breast will burst. What I wish? — — Everything, in all its fulness! I thirst to know, I yearn for deeds, I still desire to love with senseless pining, I want to feel the whole thrill of life!
I feel in secret all the wishes vain, and life is niggardly, and inwardly I am feeble, — my striving will be silent and unanswered, and in endeavours will my strength be wasted. I seem unto myself, oppressed by suffering, a kind of miserable, puny fool, a creature lost in endless space, wearing away in empty fermentation.
It is not given to us to embrace at once the spirit of eternity, and the cup of life we quaff in swallows; what we have drunk we most regret, — the empty bottom shows more and more. With every day the soul feels heavier the aging, and it is more painful to remember, and more terrible to wish, and to live appears bold recklessness, — but the pulse cannot stop beating. And I live on in hopeless striving, and take upon myself the cross of life, and all the fervour of my soul I bear in eager motion, grasping and losing moments after moments — —
And I wish all! What? — — Oh, there are so many wishes, and their host is so eager for a sally, that at times it seems that by their inward agitation my brain will burn and my breast will burst.
I feel in secret all the wishes vain, and life is niggardly, and inwardly I am feeble, — my striving will be silent and unanswered, and in endeavours will my strength be wasted. I seem unto myself, oppressed by suffering, a kind of miserable, puny fool, a creature lost in endless space, wearing away in empty fermentation.
It is not given to us to embrace at once the spirit of eternity, and the cup of life we quaff in swallows; what we have drunk we most regret, — the empty bottom shows more and more. With every day the soul feels heavier the aging, and it is more painful to remember, and more terrible to wish, and to live appears bold recklessness, — but the pulse cannot stop beating. And I live on in hopeless striving, and take upon myself the cross of life, and all the fervour of my soul I bear in eager motion, grasping and losing moments after moments — —
And I wish all! What? — — Oh, there are so many wishes, and their host is so eager for a sally, that at times it seems that by their inward agitation my brain will burn and my breast will burst.
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