Monologue

Gil Monologue from Literature

From Literature by Arthur Schnitzler

male · contemplative · 1:03 min

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A rough draft? Those letters which seemed to have been dashed off in such tremendous haste. "Just one word, dearest, before I go to bed. My eyelids are heavy—" and when your eyelids were closed you wrote the whole thing over again. (Marg: Are you piqued about it?) I might have expected as much. I ought to be glad, however, that they weren't bought from a professional love-letter writer. Oh, how everything begins to crumble! The whole past is nothing but a heap of ruins. She made a rough draft of her letters! (Marg: Be content. Maybe my letters will be all that will remain immortal of your memory.) And along with them will remain the fatal story.

About this piece

30s · melancholy · love · identity · memory · loss

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