A monologue: w. Shakespeare. Hamlet

To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep…

A condensed report of past events. E.g. from S. Maugham’s short story “Faith”:

“Day followed day, and week followed week; the spring came, and the summer; but there was no difference in the rocky desert of San Lucido. There were no trees to bud and burst into leaf, no flowers to bloom and fade; biting winds gave way to fiery heat, the sun beat down on the plain, and the sky was cloudless, cloudless--even the nights were so hot that the monks in their cells gasped for breath.”

A reflection: generalized commentary. Ch. Dickens. Olivet Twist

“ Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.

I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish.”

A digression. G. G. Byron. Don Juan

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical

Discussion, which is neither here nor there:

If I agree that what is, is; then this I call

Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair;

The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical:

I don't know what the reason is—the air

Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks

Of illness, I grow much more orthodox.

The first attack at once proved the Divinity

(But that I never doubted, nor the Devil);

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity;

The third, the usual Origin of Evil;

The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity

On so uncontrovertible a level,

That I devoutly wish'd the three were four,

On purpose to believe so much the more.

Inner represented speech. E.g. Th. Dreiser. An American Tragedy.

Here is Clyde Griffiths’ IRS:

“During all this time Clyde was saying to himself that he did not wish to do this any more, that he and his parents looked foolish and less than normal--"cheap" was the word he would have used if he could have brought himself to express his full measure of resentment at being compelled to participate in this way--and that he would not do it any more if he could help. What good did it do them to have him along? His life should not be like this. Other boys did not have to do as he did. He meditated now more determinedly than ever a rebellion by which he would rid himself of the need of going out in this way. Let his elder sister go if she chose; she liked it. His younger sister and brother might be too young to care. But he—“

Free indirect style. from Mrs Dalloway (1925) by V. Woolf:

“Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken off their hinges; Rumpelmayer’s men were coming. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning — fresh as if issued to children on a beach.

What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, “Musing among the vegetables?”— was that it?—“I prefer men to cauliflowers”— was that it? He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had gone out on to the terrace — Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished — how strange it was!— a few sayings like this about cabbages.”