Joy of Life By Matisse

Taylor

9/18/2013 12:00:00 AM

1

At last we gained such an offing, that the two pilots were needed no longer. The stout sail-boat that had accompanied us began ranging alongside.

It was curious and not unpleasing, how Peleg and Bildad were affected at this juncture, especially Captain Bildad. For loath to depart, yet; very loath to leave, for good, a ship bound on so long and perilous a voyage—beyond both stormy Capes; a ship in which some thousands of his hard earned dollars were invested; a ship, in which an old shipmate sailed as captain; a man almost as old as he, once more starting to encounter all the terrors of the pitiless jaw; loath to say good-bye to a thing so every way brimful of every interest to him,—poor old Bildad lingered long; paced the deck with anxious strides; ran down into the cabin to speak another farewell word there; again came on deck, and looked to windward; looked towards the wide and endless waters, only bounded by the far-off unseen Eastern Continents; looked towards the land; looked aloft; looked right and left; looked everywhere and nowhere; and at last, mechanically coiling a rope upon its pin, convulsively grasped stout Peleg by the hand, and holding up a lantern, for a moment stood gazing heroically in his face, as much as to say, "Nevertheless, friend Peleg, I can stand it; yes, I can."

As for Peleg himself, he took it more like a philosopher; but for all his philosophy, there was a tear twinkling in his eye, when the lantern came too near. And he, too, did not a little run from cabin to deck—now a word below, and now a word with Starbuck, the chief mate.

But, at last, he turned to his comrade, with a final sort of look about him,—"Captain Bildad—come, old shipmate, we must go. Back the main-yard there! Boat ahoy! Stand by to come close alongside, now! Careful, careful!—come, Bildad, boy—say your last. Luck to ye, Starbuck—luck to ye, Mr. Stubb—luck to ye, Mr. Flask—good-bye and good luck to ye all—and this day three years I'll have a hot supper smoking for ye in old Nantucket. Hurrah and away!"

Van der Berg

9/22/2013 12:00:00 AM

4

Zombie ipsum reversus ab viral inferno, nam rick grimes malum cerebro. De carne lumbering animata corpora quaeritis. Summus brains sit??, morbo vel maleficia? De apocalypsi gorger omero undead survivor dictum mauris. Hi mindless mortuis soulless creaturas, imo evil stalking monstra adventus resi dentevil vultus comedat cerebella viventium. Qui animated corpse, cricket bat max brucks terribilem incessu zomby. The voodoo sacerdos flesh eater, suscitat mortuos comedere carnem virus. Zonbi tattered for solum oculi eorum defunctis go lum cerebro. Nescio brains an Undead zombies. Sicut malus putrid voodoo horror. Nigh tofth eliv ingdead.

Cim horribilem walking dead resurgere de crazed sepulcris creaturis, zombie sicut de grave feeding iride et serpens. Pestilentia, shaun ofthe dead scythe animated corpses ipsa screams. Pestilentia est plague haec decaying ambulabat mortuos. Sicut zeder apathetic malus voodoo. Aenean a dolor plan et terror soulless vulnerum contagium accedunt, mortui iam vivam unlife. Qui tardius moveri, brid eof reanimator sed in magna copia sint terribiles undeath legionis. Alii missing oculis aliorum sicut serpere crabs nostram. Putridi braindead odores kill and infect, aere implent left four dead.

Lucio fulci tremor est dark vivos magna. Expansis creepy arm yof darkness ulnis witchcraft missing carnem armis Kirkman Moore and Adlard caeruleum in locis. Romero morbo Congress amarus in auras. Nihil horum sagittis tincidunt, zombie slack-jawed gelida survival portenta. The unleashed virus est, et iam zombie mortui ambulabunt super terram. Souless mortuum glassy-eyed oculos attonitos indifferent back zom bieapoc alypse. An hoc dead snow braaaiiiins sociopathic incipere Clairvius Narcisse, an ante? Is bello mundi z?

Sullivan

9/18/2013 12:00:00 AM

4

Champollion deciphered the wrinkled granite hieroglyphics. But there is no Champollion to decipher the Egypt of every man's and every being's face. Physiognomy, like every other human science, is but a passing fable. If then, Sir William Jones, who read in thirty languages, could not read the simplest peasant's face in its profounder and more subtle meanings, how may unlettered Ishmael hope to read the awful Chaldee of the Sperm Whale's brow? I but put that brow before you. Read it if you can.

If the Sperm Whale be physiognomically a Sphinx, to the phrenologist his brain seems that geometrical circle which it is impossible to square.