Pursuit and possession are accompanied by states of consciousness so wide apart that they can never be united.

But it did not all happen in a day, this giving over of himself, body and soul, to the man-animals. He could not immediately forego his wild heritage and his memories of the Wild. There were days when he crept to the edge of the forest and stood and listened to something calling him far and away.

Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.

The loneliness of the man is slowly being borne in upon me. There is not a man aboard but hates or fears him, nor is there a man whom he does not despise.

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.

And not only did he learn by experience, but instincts long dead became alive again. The domesticated generations fell from him. In vague ways he remembered back to the youth of the breed, to the time the wild dogs ranged in packs through the primeval forest and killed their meat as they ran it down.

Life is so short. I would rather sing one song than interpret the thousand.