By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

He spends most of his waking hours trolling on WIRE.

In the past, thoughts were too real to be kept like a cultural portfolio of stocks and bonds. But now we have mental assets.

Back he flew to the woodmonger, Claiming chatwood for the feat