Grave of the Sun

It seemed to have known my name and place a long time but it had done no harm yet

Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash

ASE with a deep satisfaction of the feeling I was being dragged along by the currents of my own soul. If I had been going a distance in which the great sweep of the waves would have reached me with a swift and uninterrupted course, I would be sure I was going home before the clock struck ten.

It was a long time before it did, but it was a long time before my home had become the grave, the grave where the sun had sunk.

I found it a great comfort when the last wave reached it and made up for the one. I felt it almost more as a pity I must wait for it, and even when my home and home had seemed no more, and now and then had been but like the grave where the sun had buried itself beneath its own weight and a great deal like my home, I knew it well it had. And at last even while the rising stream of waves was still on the shore, the wind came out on it which in the first place, had carried a light breeze. It struck and there I was, in the third place, still a sailor.

The wind went by on the crest of the mountains. I was going toward the sea, but this was not the spot I saw it should be at noon, when I arrived it was a hundred feet above my head. It came with the suddenness of an instinct—not the indolent, unadulterable, unutterable, but only the instinct to avoid it. It had little patience for the little waves. It seemed to have known my name and place a long time but it had done no harm yet.

I looked over, and presently reached the bottom of the water. I made my second round, in vain, to cross over the sea, but it was over the ocean, and the waves were pursued away before the sea was almost full of me.

My cabin was a little over by, and we sat there together, and I looked at him and the tide of his blood was like a ghost over my eyes. I must have been thinking that I was at the end of the world, and I was going back to the sea to die, and when it went by I had been almost at a dead man, for the wind had taken upon in this quarter the form of a monster which lay in the midst of the waves at his feet. It had come down from the top of the water, and had taken him in its arms, and was still half steep, but it looked just the same as before, like a luncheon, and then had risen and had turned on to go on and look for the sea, but I said to myself,

This is not the monster I had seen at a point; it’s a man.

On the bottom of the sea it had been, and was still to be seen. The wind had carried its light upon its whole face, and even the sea looked not at such a place as it had done when it corneced.

We looked at each other, and the moon had come out upon the water which was above the wave, and when its showed us both the dark water, it stood as though it were an imp, and it lay in the midst of the waves.

There was no terror upon the face, no horror nor pity.

And when the light of the moon turned on its face, it stood on its side, and it seemed in terror, but still it seemed to fear that the face of the dead would look upon it in its absence and say to it, that it must have been of dead persons living forever, and that nothing could hold it now save its dread, and then to remember what death had done to its life.

The fear of the thing seemed to me to be a mixture of fear and pride, of pride in death and a temptation to forget it, of fear of being a murderer if it must be, of a great hatred of death if it should be, and of a great hatred of all that might have anything to do with it.

And then that strange, intimate, and uncanny feature of its face turned upon its dark face as it came down to the sea, and all that was left of it


Editor’s Notes

The text here came out of a regular sample when I was training another fiction model. It must have had whatever the default generation settings are for the samples in gpt-2-simple.

I’ve added formatting and emphasis, and removed the word “and” from the very end, so it could end itself