Oct 8, 2026 · 34 min · 15 segments
Dive into the eerie and captivating world of "Quiet Please." This iconic radio show from the golden age of radio offers a unique blend of horror, mystery, and drama that will keep you on the edge of…
[gentle music] There are books left, many books, and I suppose I have read them all.
I remember things, too.
I remember a long white road between the shoulders of the hills and the distant clusters of the live oaks against the uplands beyond, and the wide, light blue of the sky.
There was a wind that wandered the edges of the hills that brought the salt smell of the sea so that it mingled with the loamy scent of the grass and made a perfume that I have not smelled in so many years.
There was a great plain where the hills fell away in tumbled rocky magnificence, a plain all cut into green and brown and yellowing squares, and a little stream with bridges of stone that strolled its way across the wide plain and sparkled at last into the distant western ocean.
There was life on the hills and on the plains, the field beasts that moved serenely through the pleasant grasses and rested at noon under the shadowed kindness of the green gray oaks.
There were men and cheerful women in the white-walled houses where the road curved, and the children that played noisily and sweetly in the cottage dooryards are long since dust.
Shall I tell you of the graceful beaches where the sound of the surf was a measured, majestic melody we thought would never cease? Shall I speak of the great ships prone upon the breast of the ocean, the ships that are seen no more? Would you hear of the wind-whipped nights and the lightning in the forests and the gentle rain in the dawn time? Would you remember and not forget? I remember.
I alone remember.
This was a temple, and this a place dedicated to the arts.
And there where the waves set upon the beach, the shattered walls of stone we made remain to mock us.
And there where the white road was is a desolation.
The winds die down, and the sun wanes, and the moon is sickly.
Yet I remember the lights on the hillsides and the stars above them weaving their ancient way across the sky.
There was a day when I could name them all.
They seem very far away tonight, Antares and Betelgeuse and Aldebaran, Arcturus and Vega and Procyon.
In these days, Orion, the mighty hunter, draws away from us, and the glory of Berenice's hair is dimmed in the heavens.
I would welcome the sound of the thunder again on the horizon, but all the manifestations of nature are ended, and only the twilight of eternity remains above the bleakness.
I would welcome the voice of a hungry wolf even this night or the hiss of the serpents that once we hated, that once we trampled upon.
I would welcome even the voice of old Krogh and listen with delight and laugh happily to hear him tell again the schemes he dreamed that brought us to this end.
[gentle music] There are books left, many books, and I suppose I have read them all.
I remember things, too.
I remember a long white road between the shoulders of the hills and the distant clusters of the live oaks against the uplands beyond, and the wide, light blue of the sky.
There was a wind that wandered the edges of the hills that brought the salt smell of the sea so that it mingled with the loamy scent of the grass and made a perfume that I have not smelled in so many years.
There was a great plain where the hills fell away in tumbled rocky magnificence, a plain all cut into green and brown and yellowing squares, and a little stream with bridges of stone that strolled its way across the wide plain and sparkled at last into the distant western ocean.
There was life on the hills and on the plains, the field beasts that moved serenely through the pleasant grasses and rested at noon under the shadowed kindness of the green gray oaks.
There were men and cheerful women in the white-walled houses where the road curved, and the children that played noisily and sweetly in the cottage dooryards are long since dust.
Shall I tell you of the graceful beaches where the sound of the surf was a measured, majestic melody we thought would never cease? Shall I speak of the great ships prone upon the breast of the ocean, the ships that are seen no more? Would you hear of the wind-whipped nights and the lightning in the forests and the gentle rain in the dawn time? Would you remember and not forget? I remember.
I alone remember.
This was a temple, and this a place dedicated to the arts.
And there where the waves set upon the beach, the shattered walls of stone we made remain to mock us.
And there where the white road was is a desolation.
The winds die down, and the sun wanes, and the moon is sickly.
Yet I remember the lights on the hillsides and the stars above them weaving their ancient way across the sky.
There was a day when I could name them all.
They seem very far away tonight, Antares and Betelgeuse and Aldebaran, Arcturus and Vega and Procyon.
In these days, Orion, the mighty hunter, draws away from us, and the glory of Berenice's hair is dimmed in the heavens.
I would welcome the sound of the thunder again on the horizon, but all the manifestations of nature are ended, and only the twilight of eternity remains above the bleakness.
I would welcome the voice of a hungry wolf even this night or the hiss of the serpents that once we hated, that once we trampled upon.
I would welcome even the voice of old Krogh and listen with delight and laugh happily to hear him tell again the schemes he dreamed that brought us to this end.
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