Evaleon Hill West with the Night
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
you could live a lifetime, and at the end of it, no more about other people than you know about yourself. You learned to watch other people, but you never watch yourself because you strive against loneliness. If you read a book or shuffle a deck of cards or care for a dog, you are avoiding yourself. The appearance of loneliness Issa's natural is wanting to live it all. If it were otherwise, men would never have bothered to make an alphabet, nor to have fashioned words out of what were only animal sounds, nor to have crossed continents, each man to see what the other looked like. Being alone in an aeroplane for even so shorter times. A night and a day irrevocably alone with nothing to observe, but your instruments and your own hands in semi darkness, nothing to contemplate but the size of your small courage. Nothingto wonder about that. The beliefs, the faces and the hopes rooted in your mind. Such an experience can be a startling is the first awareness of a stranger walking by your side at night. You are the stranger, it is dark already, and I'm over the south of Ireland. There the lights of court and the lights are wet. They're drenched in Irish rain, and I am above wth, um, and dry. I am above them and the plane roars in a sobbing world, but it imparts no sadness to me. I feel the security of solitude, the exhilaration of escape. So long as I can see the lights and imagine the people walking under them, I feel selfishly triumphant, as if I have eluded care and left even the small sorrow of rain in other hands. It is a little over an hour now, since I left Abingdon, England, Wales and the Irish Sea behind me, like so much time used up on a long flight distance and time of the same. But there had been a moment when time stopped and distance, too. It was the moment I lifted the blue and silver gull from the aerodrome, the moment the photographer's aimed their cameras, the moment I felt the craft to refuse its burden and strained or the earth in sullen rebellion, only to listen at last to the persuasion of stick and elevators, the dogmatic argument of blueprints that said she had to fly because the figure has proved it so. She had flown and once airborne, once she had yielded to the sophistry of a draughtsman is bored. She had said there I have lifted the weight. Now where are we bound? And the question had frightened me. We are bound for a place 3600 miles from here. 2000 miles of it, unbroken ocean Most of the way it will be night. We are flying west with the night.