Happiness in life belongs to the Lord, just as a perfect ten, they say, belongs to the teacher.
Nature would frolic toward something tempting, but the thoughts of writing, for posterity, about a new fate for the characters, anchor it in solitude.
The image of that one, put against the wall for the sin of shouting, from the ship’s edge: "Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" toward the destined land, haunts my memory.
If the protagonist had not possessed the ability to think and to declare, then the author’s attempt would yield no result, just as notations would be a supersonic jet, but I would not be their passenger.