At the outset. Like a fallen dragon in some mist and vapor shrouded swamp, our spruce-clad coastland lies. Far out there: two steamers crying from a dream in the fog. This is the lower world. Motionless woods, motionless surface and the orchid’s hand that reaches from the soil. On the other side, beyond these straits but hanging in the same reflection: the Ship, like the cloud hanging weightless in its space. And the water round its prow is motionless, becalmed. And yet—a storm is up! and the steamer smoke blows level—the sun flickers there in its grip—and the gale is hard against the face of him who boards. To make one’s way up the port side of Death. A sudden draft, the curtain flutters. Silence ringing, an alarm clock. [...]