Beneath those stars is a universe of gliding monsters. - Herman Melville

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.

Such is the endlessness, yea, the intolerableness of all earthly effort.

It was not a very white jacket, but white enough, in all conscience, as the sequel will show.
The way I came by it was this...