وأنا الصياد الذى لا يرتاح أبداَ. الصياد الذى لا وطن له. والتى أقصدها ما تزال تطير أمامى; وأنا سأتبعها، مع أنها قادتنى إلى ماوراء الجبال، عبر بحارٍ بلا … - Herman Melville

Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn't stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever i find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet... I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

It is not down on any map; true places never are.