And the land he will come to is unknown—as is, once he disembarks, the land from which he comes. As he sits there, brooding on the old unknown world, he thinks of the river with its thousand arms, the sea with its thousand roads. He has come a long way to this exclusion, the interior of the exterior, external to everything. He is a prisoner in the midst of this blue lawn, the openest of routes: bound fast at the infinite crossroads. Water adds to this the dark mass of its own values, and his dream seems so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it.
The voyage is at once a rigorous division and an absolute passage, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. So we beat on across a half-real, half-imaginary geography, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the great madness.