“We picture the world as thick with conquering and elate humanity, but here, with the bugles of the tempest peeling, it was hard to imagine a peopled earth. One viewed the existence of man then as a marvel and conceded a glamour of wonder to these lice which were caused to cling to a whirling, firesmitten, icelocked, diseasestricken, spacelost bulb. The conceit of man was explained by this storm to be the very engine of life. One was a coxcomb not to die in it.”
Stephen Crane
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