He took no notice. "By that, I take it, you see something that is alive, but that necessarily does not have to live forever."
"I read more than that," I continued boldly.
"Then you read consciousness. You read the consciousness of life that it is alive; but still no further away, no endlessness of life."
How clearly he thought, and how well he expressed what he thought! From regarding me curiously, he turned his head and glanced out over the leaden sea to windward. A bleakness came into his eyes, and the lines of his mouth grew severe and harsh. He was evidently in a pessimistic mood.
"Then to what end?" he demanded abruptly, turning back to me. "If I am immortal, why?"
I halted. How could I explain my idealism to this man? How could I put into speech a something felt, a something like the strains of music heard in sleep, a something that convinced yet transcended utterance?
"What do you believe, then?" I countered.
"I believe that life is a mess," he answered promptly. "It is like yeast, a ferment, a thing that moves and may move for a minute, an hour, a year, or a hundred years, but that in the end will cease to move. The big eat the little that they may continue to move, the strong eat the weak that they may retain their strength. The lucky eat the most and move the longest, that is all. What do you make of those things?"
He swept his arm in an impatient gesture toward a number of the sailors who were working on some kind of rope stuff amidships.
"They move; so does the jellyfish move. They move in order to eat in order that they may keep moving.
