Sir, 'til this thing be done, my boy's face is to me as the palm of this hand - a lipless unfeatured blank.
All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in the event — in the living act, the undoubted deed — there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features. If man will strike, strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall?
He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous strength, inscrutable malice. Be the white whale agent, or be the white whale principle, I will wreak my hate upon him.
Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I'd strike the sun if it insulted me. For could the sun do that, then could I do the other; since there is ever a sort of fair play in these things, jealousy presiding over all creations.
