Robert Eggers

You think yer so damned high and mighty cause yer a goddamned lighthouse keeper? Well, you ain't a captain of no ship and you never was, you ain't no general, no copper, you ain't the president, and you ain't my father -- and I'm sick of you actin' like you is! I'm sick of your laugh, your snoring, and your goddamned farts. Your damned goddamned farts. Goddamn yer farts! You smell like piss, you smell like jism, like rotten dick, like curdled foreskin, like hot onions fucked a farmyard shit-house. And I'm sick of yer smell. I'm sick of it! I'm sick of it, you goddamned drunk. You goddamned, no-account, drunken, son-of-a-bitch-bastard liar! That's what you are, you're a goddamned drunken horse-shitting -- short -- shit liar. A liar!

It's like you said, I just… had enough of trees, I guess… Since I left dad, I'd done every kind of work that can pay a man… Some I ain't near proud of.

No, just… can't find a post I could take a real shine to, so I keep movin' along… I ain't the kind to look back what's behind him, see?

Now look here! Ain't nothin' wrong with a man startin' fresh, startin' new. Just looking to earn a livin'…

..Just like any man…

Goddamn your farts! You smell like piss, you smell like jism, like rotten dick, like curdled foreskin, like hot onions fucked a farmyard shit house. And I'm sick of your smell. I'm sick of it! I'm sick of it, you goddamned drunk. You goddamned no-account, son-of-a-bitch-bastard liar! That's what you are! You're a goddamned drunken, horse-shitting, short, shit liar. A liar!

Should pale death with treble dread, make ocean caves our bed, God who hear'st the surges roll, design to save the suppliant soul.

Yer fond of me lobster aint' ye? I seen it - yer fond of me lobster! Say it! Say it. Say it!

Damn ye! Let Neptune strike ye dead Winslow! HAAARK!

Hark Triton, hark! Bellow, bid our father the Sea King rise from the depths full foul in his fury! Black waves teeming with salt foam to smother this young mouth with pungent slime, to choke ye, engorging your organs til' ye turn blue and bloated with bilge and brine and can scream no more - only when he, crowned in cockle shells with slitherin' tentacle tail and steaming beard take up his fell be-finned arm, his coral-tine trident screeches banshee-like in the tempest and plunges right through yer gullet, bursting ye - a bulging bladder no more, but a blasted bloody film now and nothing for the harpies and the souls of dead sailors to peck and claw and feed upon only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite waters of the Dread Emperor himself - forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil, forgotten even to the sea, for any stuff for part of Winslow, even any scantling of your soul is Winslow no more, but is now itself the sea!

Should pale death, with treble dread, make the ocean caves our bed, God who hears the surges roll deign to save our suppliant soul.

Since we're gettin' too friendly, Ephraim Winslow, ell me, what's a timberman want with being a wicky?… Not enough quiet for ye up north? Sawdust itchin' yer nethers? Foreman found ye too high tempered for carryin' an axe?

And if I tells ye to yank out every single nail from every molderin' nail-hole and suck off every speck of rust till all them nails sparkle like a sperm whale's pecker, and then carpenter the whole light station back together from scrap, and then do it all over again, you'll do it! And by God and by golly, you'll do it smilin', lad, 'cause you'll like it. You'll like it 'cause I says you will! Contradict me again, and I'll dock your wages.

And I'm damn-well wedded to this here light, and she's been a finer, truer, quieter wife than any alive-blooded woman.

Should pale death with treble dread / make the ocean caves our bed, / God who hear'st the surges roll, / deign to save our suppliant soul.

O what Protean forms swim up from men's minds, and melt in hot Promethean plunder, scorching eyes, with divine shames and horror... And casting them down to Davy Jones. The others, still blind, yet in it see all the divine graces and to Fiddler's Green sent,where no man is suffered to want or toil,but is... Ancient... Mutable and unchanging as the she who girdles 'round the globe. Them's truth.

Doldrums. Doldrums. Eviler than the Devil. Boredom makes men to villains, and the water goes quick, lad, vanished. The only med'cine is drink. Keeps them sailors happy, keeps 'em agreeable, keeps 'em calm..

Look at ye, handsome lad with eyes bright as a lady. Come to this rock, playin' the tough. Ye make me laugh with yer false grum. Ye pretended to some mystery in yer quietudes, but... there ain't no mystery. Yer an open book. A picture, says I. A painted actress screamin' in the footlights, a bitch what wants to be coveted for nothin' but bein' born, cryin' 'bout the silver spoon what shoulda been yers! Now look at ye, cryin'. "Boo... boo..." What ye gonna do? Will ye kill me? Will ye? Will ye kill me like ye done that gull?

LIAR! Ye murd'rin' dog! 'Twas ye what changed the wind on us! 'Twas ye what damned us, dog, 'twas ye! Will ye do what ye wished ye'd done to ol' Winslow? Will ye best me then? For Winslow were right, Thomas! Yer a dog! A filthy dog! A DOG!