"In glades they meet skull after skull/Where pine-cones lay — the rusted gun,/Green shoes full of bones, the mouldering coat/And cuddled-up skeleton;… - Herman Melville

In armies, navies, cities, or families, in nature herself, nothing more relaxes good order than misery.

I might give alms to his body; but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach.

Hark ye yet again, — the little lower layer. All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event — in the living act, the undoubted deed — there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask. If man will strike, strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is that wall, shoved near to me. Sometimes I think there’s naught beyond. But ‘tis enough.