The grief of the keen is no personal complaint for the death of one woman over eighty years, but seems to contain the whole passionate rage that lurks somewhere in every native of the island.
John Millington SyngeRead
A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.
Interpretation
The quote reflects the feelings of isolation and desolation experienced in a misty, lonely environment.
John Millington Synge expresses a profound sense of solitude and bleakness through his depiction of the natural landscape around him. The sweeping fogs create an atmosphere of exile, while the descriptions of the wet rock and tumultuous waves symbolize a tumultuous state of mind, suggesting an inner struggle amid the harsh beauty of nature.
In practice
In a discussion about the emotional effects of weather on mood.
The grief of the keen is no personal complaint for the death of one woman over eighty years, but seems to contain the whole passionate rage that lurks somewhere in every native of the island.
In this cry of pain the inner consciousness of the people seems to lay itself bare for an instant, and to reveal the mood of beings who feel their isolation in the face of a universe that wars on them with winds and seas.
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long.
Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.
A lone peak of high point is a natural focal point in the landscape, something by which both travelers and local orient themselves. In the continuum of landscape, mountains are discontinuity -- culminating in high points, natural barriers, unearthly earth.
It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what.
I would I were alive again To kiss the fingers of the rain, To drink into my eyes the shine Of every slanting silver line, To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze From drenched and dripping apple-trees. For soon the shower will be done, And then the broad face of the sun Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth Until the world with answering mirth Shakes joyously, and each round drop Rolls twinkling, from its grass-blade top.
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