A ship in dock, surrounded by quays and the walls of warehouses, has the appearance of a prisoner meditating upon freedom in the sadness of a free spirit put under restraint.

The sea—this truth must be confessed—has no generosity. No display of manly qualities—courage, hardihood, endurance, faithfulness—has ever been known to touch its irresponsible consciousness of power.

For all that has been said of the love that certain natures (on shore) have professed to feel for it, for all the celebrations it has been the object of in prose and song, the sea has never been friendly to man. At most it has been the accomplice of human restlessness.

Some of us, regarding the ocean with understanding and affection, have seen it looking old, as if the

Nowhere else than upon the sea do the days, weeks, and months fall away quicker into the past. They seem to be left astern as easily as the light air- bubbles in the swirls of the ship’s wake.

There is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea.

Don’t you forget what’s divine in the Russian soul—and that’s resignation.

The revolutionary spirit is mighty convenient in this, that it frees one from all scruples as regards ideas.

Resignation, not mystic, not detached, but resignation open-eyed, conscious, and informed by love, is the only one of our feelings for which it is impossible to become a sham.

A man’s real life is that accorded to him in the thoughts of other men by reason of respect or natural love.