The Listener

For who listens to us in all the world, whether he be friend or teacher, brother or father or mother, sister or neighbor, son or ruler or servant? Does he listen, our advocate, or our husbands or wives, those who are dearest to us?

Do the stars listen, when we turn despairingly from man, or the great winds, or the seas or the mountains? To whom can any man say—Here I am! Behold me in my nakedness, my wounds, my secret grief, my despair, my betrayal, my pain, my tongue which cannot express my sorrow, my terror, my abandonment.


Listen to me for a day—an hour!—a moment!

Lest I expire in my terrible wilderness, my lonely silence! O God, is there no one to listen?
...
Is there no one to listen? you ask. Ah yes, there is one who listens, who will always listen. Hasten to him, my friend! He waits on the hill for you.

For you, alone.

—Attributed to Seneca the Younger by Taylor Caldwell in The Listener.