For eighteen minutes Revenge pounded the dockyard area at an average range of 15,700 yards, spreading for line and laddering for range to a prearranged plan to cover the whole target area.

Effulgence of my Glorie, Son belov’d, / Son in whoſe face inviſible is beheld / Viſibly, what by Deitie I am, / And in whoſe hand what by Decree I doe, / Second Omnipotence, two dayes are paſt, / Two dayes, as we compute the dayes of Heav’n, / Since Michael and his Powers went forth to tame / Theſe diſobedient[…]

I can't put into words what you mean to me.

Or is there some way in which the product of that solitude—writing—may none the less be profoundly social, rejoining the commonalty of society, and through its indirections and specificities being the most authentic contribution the writer can offer?