Death of a Salesman Monologues

An aging traveling salesman recognizes the emptiness of his life and tries to fix it.

I run out of that building and I see... the sky. I see all the things I love in this world. The work, the food, the time to sit and smoke. And I look at this pen and I ask myself, "What the hell am I grabbing this thing for? Why am I trying to become something I don't wanna become when all I want is out there waiting for me the minute I say I know who I am?"

Will you let me go, for God's sake? Will you take that phony dream and burn it before something happens?

I spent six or seven years after High School trying to work myself up, being a shipping clerk, salesman, business of one kind or another. It's a measly manner of existence. To get on that subway, on hot mornings in the the summer, to devote your whole life to keeping stock or making phone calls? By selling and buying? To suffer fifty weeks of the year for the sake of a two-week vacation? When all you really desire is to be outdoors with your shirt off. And always, to have to get ahead of the next fella and still, that's how you build a future.

There were a lot of nice days. When he'd come home from a trip; or on Sundays, making the stoop; finishing the cellar; when he built the extra bathroom; and put up the garage. You know, Charley, I think there was more of him in that front stoop than in all the sales he ever made.

Help me, Willy, I can't cry. It seems to me that you're just on another trip and I keep expecting you. Why did you do it? I search and search - and I search, and I - can't understand it, Willy. I made the last payment on the house today. Today, dear. And there'll be nobody home. We're free and clear. We're free. We're free. We're free.

I am not saying he's a great man. Willy Loman never earned a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He's not the finest character that ever lived. But he's a human being - and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He must not be allowed to fall into his grave like an old dog. Attention! Attention must be finally paid to such a person! You called him crazy...

Are they any worse than his sons? He drives seven hundred miles, and when he gets there no one knows him any more, no one welcomes him. And what goes through a man's mind, driving seven hundred miles home without having earned a cent? Why shouldn't he talk to himself? Why not? When he has to go to Charley every week and borrow fifty dollars from him and pretend to me it's his pay? Now, how long can that go on? How long? And you tell me he has no character? The man who never worked a day but for your benefit? When does he get the medal for that? Is this his reward?

Walk in very serious. You are not applying for a boy's job. Money is to pass. Be quiet, fine, and serious. Everybody likes a kidder, but nobody lends him money.

Walk in with a big laugh. Don't look worried. Start off with a couple of your good stories to lighten things up. It's not what you say, it's how you say it - because personality always wins the day.

I get so lonely - especially when business is bad and there's nobody to talk to. I get the feeling that I'll never sell anything anymore, that I won't make a living for you, or a business, a business for the boys.

My father lived many years in Alaska. He was an adventurous man! We've got quite a little streak of self-reliance in our family, Howard. I thought I'd go out with my older brother and try to locate him and maybe even settle in the North with the old man. And I was almost decided to go - when I met a salesman in the Parker House. His name was Dave Singleman. And he was eighty-four years old, and he'd drummed merchandise in thirty-one states. And old Dave, he'd go up to his room, y'understand, put on his green velvet slippers - I'll never forget - and pick up the phone and call the buyers, without ever leaving his room, at the age of eighty-four, he made his living. And when I saw that, I realized that selling was the greatest career that a man could want. Because what could be more satisfying than to be able to go, at the age of eighty-four, into twenty or thirty different cities, and pick up his phone and be remembered and loved and helped by so many different people? You know, when - when he died, by the way he died the death of a salesman, in his green velvet slippers in the smoker of the NewYork, New Haven and Hartford, going into Boston - when he died, hundreds of salesmen and buyers were at his funeral. Things were sad on a lotta trains - for months after that. You see, in those days there was personality in it, Howard. There was respect and comradeship and gratitude in it. Today, it's all cut and dried, and there's no chance for bringing friendship to bear or personality. You see what I mean? They don't know me anymore.

I'm talking about your father! There were promises made across this desk! You mustn't tell me you've got people to see. I put thirty-four years into this firm, Howard, and now I can't pay my insurance! You can't eat the orange and throw the peel away - a man is not a piece of fruit!

It's not what you do, Ben, it's who you know and the smile on your face! It's contacts, Ben, contacts! The whole wealth of Alaska passes over the lunch table at the Commodore Hotel, and that's the wonder, the wonder of this country, that a man can end with diamonds here on the basis of being liked!