The Path To My Fixed Purpose Is

At Last The Anchor Was Up, The Sails Were Set, And Off We Glided. It Was A Sharp, Cold Christmas; And As The Short Northern Day Merged Into Night, We Found Ourselves Almost Broad Upon The Wintry Ocean, Whose Freezing Spray Cased Us In Ice, As In Polished Armor.

Where Lies The Final Harbor, Whence We Unmoor No More?

I Love To Sail Forbidden Seas, And Land On Barbarous Coasts.

Many Sensible Things Banished From High Life Find An Asylum Among The Mob.

The Symmetry Of Form Attainable In Pure Fiction Can Not So Readily Be Achieved In A Narration Essentially Having Less To Do With Fable Than With Fact. Truth Uncompromisingly Told Will Always Have Its Ragged Edges.