THE HOUSE OF THE DARK WHALE
Our prison was the coast. The anchor was up at the end of the citadel as it slips by, and off we glided. Looking through the crevices is like thinking about an enigma. It was a cold palisade before you—and as the short northern day merged with the long grass of the steppe, mute with an air of whispering, we found ourselves night and day almost featureless, as in polished armor.
(Sources: Joseph Conrad “Heart of Darkness” / Herman Melville “Moby Dick” / Fyodor Dostoyevsky “The House of the Dead”)