Blue, green, grey, white, or black; smooth, ruffled, or

H. P. Lovecraft, master of cosmic dread, once wrote: “Blue, green, grey, white, or black; smooth, ruffled, or mountainous; that ocean is not silent.” In these words, he gives voice to the eternal restlessness of the sea, that ancient power which has ever been both cradle and grave of humankind. He reminds us that no matter its color, no matter its form, the ocean is alive, speaking ceaselessly with a tongue of waves and winds. To call it “not silent” is to confess that beneath its shifting face lies a force eternal, unyielding, and beyond man’s control.

The ancients understood this truth well. To the Greeks, Poseidon, god of the sea, was tempestuous and unpredictable. They knew that the ocean, whether smooth or mountainous, bore a voice that could bring either bounty or destruction. The Hebrews sang in their psalms of the sea’s roaring, while the Norse told of Jörmungandr, the serpent that encircled the world beneath the waves. Always, the ocean was not a void of silence, but a chorus of mystery, majesty, and terror. Lovecraft, inheritor of this ancient awe, adds his own mark: the sea is not merely vast, but uncanny, whispering truths that stir the soul with unease.

History, too, testifies to this unbroken voice. Columbus, crossing the Atlantic, described the ceaseless sighing of waters as both guide and torment. The sailors of the Age of Discovery spoke of phantom sounds — groans, wails, and murmurs rising from the deep. And in the Great Storm of 1703, Daniel Defoe recorded the sound of the ocean as a living roar, more terrifying than thunder itself, as if the abyss had opened its throat. Here again is Lovecraft’s truth: that the ocean is never still, never voiceless, always proclaiming its presence to those who dare listen.

But Lovecraft’s vision goes beyond natural description. The sea, in his writings, is a symbol of the unknown. Its shifting colors — blue, green, grey, white, or black — are like the moods of fate itself, and its endless murmur is the call of the infinite. In saying it is not silent, he reminds us that Nature herself is never mute. The world speaks to us in the crash of waves, in the ruffle of waters, in the mountain-high surge of storms. What men call silence is only their failure to hear.

The deeper meaning lies in this: the ocean is the mirror of life. At times calm and smooth, at times ruffled with small troubles, at times mountainous with storms that threaten to consume us. Yet through it all, it is never silent. Life speaks to us through its trials and joys, its tempests and calms. Only the wise listen. To ignore the sea’s voice — whether literal or symbolic — is to miss the teachings written into the very fabric of existence.

The lesson for us is to cultivate listening. Do not imagine the world around you to be mute. The ocean speaks, but so too do the forests, the mountains, and even the winds of your own life. Attend to their voices, for in them lies guidance. When the waves are gentle, hear their invitation to peace. When they are wild, hear their warning of danger or their call to courage. Do not live deaf to the symphony of existence, for in that music, you find your place in the cosmos.

Practically, this means taking time to be still before Nature and within yourself. Stand by the sea if you can, and listen to its endless voice. Or in its absence, listen to the voices of your own life — the restlessness within, the whispers of conscience, the cries of those around you. Remember Lovecraft’s insight: nothing is truly silent. The world speaks ceaselessly. The task of the wise is to hear, to interpret, and to act.

Thus, Lovecraft’s words resound beyond horror, carrying an ancient wisdom: “That ocean is not silent.” It never was, and it never will be. Learn to hear its voice, and you will never walk the earth in ignorance. For in its eternal murmur is both the terror and the majesty of existence — the reminder that life is alive, speaking always, awaiting those who have ears to listen.