I Love The Flesh. I'm A Pagan.

But Under It All They Were Men, Penetrating The Land Of Desolation And Mockery And Silence, Puny Adventurers Bent On Colossal Adventure, Pitting Themselves Against The Might Of A World As Remote And Alien And Pulseless As The Abysses Of Space.

The First Theft Marked Buck As Fit To Survive In The Hostile Northland Environment. It Marked His Adaptability, His Capacity To Adjust Himself To Changing Conditions, The Lack Of Which Would Have Meant Swift And Terrible Death. It Marked, Further, The Decay Or Going To Pieces Of His Moral Nature, A Vain Thing And A Handicap In The Ruthless Struggle For Existence.

I Would Rather Be A Superb Meteor, Every Atom Of Me In Magnificent Glow, Than A Sleepy And Permanent Planet.

To Have A Full Stomach, To Daze Lazily In The Sunshine--such Things Were Remuneration In Full For His Adors And Toils, While His Ardors And Toils Were In Themselves Self-remunerative. They Were Expressions Of Life, And Life Is Always Happy When It Is Expressing Itself.

He Had No Conscious Knowledge Of Death, But Like Every Animal Of The Wild, He Possessed The Instinct Of Death. To Him It Stood As The Greatest Of Hurts. It Was The Very Essence Of The Unknown; It Was The Sum Of The Terrors Of The Unknown, The One Culminating And Unthinkable Catastrophe That Could Happen To Him, About Which He Knew Nothing And About Which He Feared Everything.