What the hell was it I wanted to buy, I wonder, that was worth—W — Eugene O'Neill

"Im as drunk as a fiddlers bitch."

"Yes, I remember. I fell in love with James Tyrone and was so happy for a time"

"I havent touched a piano in so many years. I couldnt play with such crippled fingers, even if I wanted to. For a time after my marriage I tried to keep up my music. But it was hopeless. One-night stands, cheap hotels, dirty trains, leaving children, never having a home — [She stares at her hands with fascinated disgust.] See, Cathleen, how ugly they are! So maimed and crippled! You would think theyd been through some horrible accident! [She gives a strange little laugh.] So they have, come to think of it. [She suddenly thrusts her hands behind her back.] I wont look at them. Theyre worse than the foghorn for reminding me — [Then with defiant self-assurance.] But even they cant touch me now. [She brings her hands from behind her back and deliberately stares at them — calmly.] Theyre far away. I see them, but the pain has gone."

"It wasnt the fog I minded, Cathleen. I really love fog. It hides you from the world and the world from you. You feel that everything has changed, and nothing is what it seemed to be. No one can find or touch you any more. Its the foghorn I hate. It wont let you alone. It keeps reminding you, and warning you, and calling you back."

"Is it one wid this youd be, Yank — black smoke from the funnels smudging the sea, smudging the decks — the bloody engines pounding and throbbing and shaking — wid divil a sight of sun or a breath of clean air — choking our lungs wid coal dust — breaking our backs and hearts in the hell of the stokehole — feeding the bloody furnace — feeding our lives along wid the coal, Im thinking — caged in by steel from a sight of the sky like bloody apes in the Zoo!"

"Dont cry. The damned dont cry."