Fiction Is History, Human History,

In The Empty Immensity Of Earth, Sky, And Water, There She Was, Incomprehensible, Firing Into A Continent.

The Dreams Of Men, The Seed Of Commonwealth, The Germs Of Empires.

When One Has Got To Make Correct Entries, One Comes To Hate Those Savages--hate Them To The Death.

But His Soul Was Mad. Being Alone In The Wilderness, It Had Looked Within Itself And, By Heavens I Tell You, It Had Gone Mad.

There Is Nothing More Enticing, Disenchanting, And Enslaving Than The Life At Sea.