O' NEIL

WARNING: WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ IS PRETENSIOUS AND VERBOSE (WITH THE OCCASIONAL SPELLING ERROR DUE TO LAZINESS).

I feel like such a fool that, up until this point in my life, I've never read anything by Eugene O' Neil. I'm so deeply affected by his work; I feel like I can't explain how it is that I've been able to live all these years apart from the profundity that embodies his work. It is too cliched for me to insist that I don't have any words to explain what it--his work--has done to me. It is less popular, but more pretentious, to try and justify his art in my own subjective overabundance of words.

I have no desire to do either, although I am inclined to the former. I merely wish to amplify the meaning, if you will, of my affectations; the meaning of his words upon me. The meaning for me is the truth involved in this: One artist creating something so profoundly universal that is governed by the world, its msery, its mystery, its beauty, its loss, its reach for life in the midst of futility, its interconnectedness and simultaneous polarization; all this being channelled conciously through the artist so that you view not him as artist, in fact, so that you veiw him not at all, but that you sense humanity; that you find something of yourself not able to be gotten anywhere else: not in philosophy, nor religion, nor pleasure, nor philanthropy, nor anything I can think of. Learn that you are responsible for every moment, every second.

I just don't know what to say, but something has happened to me; and I think it should happen to you, if it has not already.

How dare I have never read o' Neil before